Legacy of Blood
by Doctor Vile
Summary: Sequel to Sons of Liberty. Chapter Seven: Operatives unite as Liquid and Vamp join forces with Philanthropy, but all parties reckoned without the ever scheming Patriots...
1. Act One

Prologue  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
The cold metallic voice reverberated around the steel reflective room as it had done countless times before, yet it resounded as chillingly as the first time it had been said.  
  
I am Solid Snake.  
  
No reply came, and the question was repeated.  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
I am Solid Snake.  
  
The man being questioned by the cold voice once again attempted an answer, but his mouth was too weak to move. His throat, cold and dry, merely rasped a hollow reply.  
  
The pain that followed was totally expected, but had lost none of its potency since the first time the prisoner felt it. Shocks of electricity thumped through his chest and quickened his heartbeat immeasurably. It lasted about ten seconds, and it took almost that long for the prisoner to realise that the screams that were echoing through his eardrums were his own.  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
"I am Solid Snake." Eventually the answer came, spat through swollen lips. His wrists still tingled irregularly.  
  
Electricity again shot through the man's body. He feared his wrists would split, and his heart seemed to smash against his sternum. His neck craned sharply upwards as a last, desperate attempt to escape the pain; but his arms and legs were tightly manacled to the metal wall. The agony stopped as abruptly as it had started.  
  
"You are no-one." The voice spoke again. "Who are you?"  
  
"I am Solid Snake." It again took a gargantuan effort for the man to utter his answer, and no sooner had the words left his lips than the electricity was pumped up again. He writhed ever more violently than before, and try as he might he could not block it out. Presently he again became aware of the scream being torn from his mouth.  
  
"Who are you?" The question was put to the tortured again once the pain had resided. But there was no other answer to be given.  
  
"I am Solid Snake."  
  
Once more his muscles gave way to the clockwork thumps pounding through them. The excruciation came flooding into his mind's forefront, swelling his eyes shut. He felt as though he was clinging to something by his fingertips; what he did not know. Either his sanity or his life, he concluded swiftly.  
  
This process was continued for what seemed like days, but could not have been more than mere hours. Each time it seemed as though the electricity was greater than before, each time the pain was more unbearable. The prisoner's mind clouded, and he could not remember a time when he was not fighting for his life to block out the artificial agony. After an immeasurable time, something in the man's mind seemed to give; a handhold was pulled away from an immense vertical drop. His stomach dropped again and his bladder gave way.  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
The voice was the same as it had been throughout, yet worlds apart from the first time it had been said. Something had changed. The pulsation remained.  
  
"I am no-one," came the reply. He did not know whether he believed it or not, focusing on any thought was beyond his current state. The prisoner's manacles released him almost instantly, and he slid from the wall of his torture onto the icy metal floor. Too weak to move, he lay there, near death.  
  
Suddenly, light flooded into the room. It washed over the fallen like a golden river, burning his eyes and cleansing his wounds.  
  
"Good."  
  
It was the same voice that had put his question across countless times before, but closer. It, and the light, came from a doorway that had been opened in the room. The speaker did not cast a shadow on the ice-like surface on which he walked.  
  
"Now we can begin." 


	2. Chapter One

Legacy Of Blood: Act One Chapter One  
  
It was only the pungent odours of hospital disinfectant that told Alyssia Markova that she was in the same place as she had been at least one hundred times before, as the rest of her senses had been grasped tight by disbelief. Although only young, she had always had a firm grip on reality, a grip tempered by years of helping her adopted mother nurse the sick and dying. However, she was only young, and now surprised and scared by the whole situation. Alyssia would have cried if she had not been concentrating her want to help.  
  
As she hurried after the striding footsteps of the crowd ahead of her, she could see her mother darting in and out of the travelling congregation, trying to help the rest of the medical staff in any way possible, but this was not the reason why she pursued the crowd with such haste. Alyssia would not have been following so fast in her vain attempt to keep up down the polished ward floor if she had not seen the patient as it had been brought in: it was a baby, no more than a few weeks old. She still felt a tinge of pain from her first sight of it.  
  
As she ran, Alyssia took the care that only someone so familiar to the Canadian hospital could take not to trip, and minded her nursing skirt with merely passing acknowledgment. She certainly did not want a broken arm for her twelfth birthday party, but ran with all the conviction that one could on a surface such as that. As she passed each bed she forgot to smile at the invalids as she usually did, such was the intensity of her emotions.  
  
Eventually the group stopped just short of the isolation ward. Alyssia did not have time to wonder why they had not gone to the maternity ward, but instead pushed her way through the now static onlookers, ignoring all complaints. She knew she had a job to do, however small.  
  
Alyssia eventually found herself staring into the infants' streaming eyes. It was blanketed from head to toe in crimson liquid; it had not quite registered to Alyssia that it was blood that ran from the fragile body, but she had enough awareness about her to realise that it did not originate from the baby: there were no serious cuts upon it. Noticing things like that had become second nature to her subconscious.  
  
Alyssia immediately ran to the disinfected cloths but returned to a frustratingly more densely packed group than when she had left. She stopped dead, a dangerous action when within turmoil. The whole situation began to focus itself in her mind.  
  
"Alyssia!" Her mother called her name, spurring her fortunately into motion once more. Again she was forced to prise her way through to the baby, and straight away began to wipe the crimson from the cringing, screaming young head. She paid little heed to the lump now forming in her throat and continued with her job in the way that her mother had taught her, almost from the day she was born. She helped to dress the wound (a small abrasion on the child's forearm) by wiping it clean and covering it with a nearby medicinal plaster. It is at times like this that it is said that there is no time to dwell on the present: when one's life could be at stake. It was just as well that the hum of the surrounding people - there were about ten in all - made little sense to her: she had to concentrate.  
  
Eventually Alyssia did hear voices that she recognised in her native tongue. A section of the crowding had broken off and were nurses, talking in French. They sounded very upset. She herself fought back tears.  
  
"There is another downstairs, I think we're needed."  
  
"Is that the man with the bullet wound?"  
  
"Yes, he was carrying the baby until..."  
  
They were quickly cut off by the commanding voice of a man standing perhaps a few feet away from Alyssia. "He is fine. You are needed here." This was too much for Alyssia to take in, and she would not understand it until later. All that registered to her was the assertiveness of the man's speech.  
  
It was then that Alyssia's mother spoke to her again. "I'll finish off here," she said, as the last of the blood was gleaned from the child's head. "You go and rest. You've done very well." Alyssia would have protested, but a threesome of other nurses assumed her place at the baby's side the moment she stood back from it.  
  
Alyssia left the group of medics and walked slowly towards a nearby unoccupied bed. She pulled herself up onto it, and presently the lump in her throat seemed to dissolve into tears that began to drip from her stinging eyes. The polished hospital floor reflected her clear blue eyes and platinum blond hair back up at her, and she allowed a tear to splash onto her sobering image below. The last ten minutes ran through her mind in slow motion clarity, bringing her duly back up to speed with her situation and introducing salty tears to her face. She saw the naked baby covered in blood once more. It had been very graphic at the time, but only now was it catching up to her. Sitting on the hospital bed, Alyssia now felt very useless. This was despite the fact she knew that her mother truly needed her help but would refuse it anyway in her attempt to protect her daughter from the startling nature and sheer intensity of the whole upsetting incident.  
  
Her assistance to her mother was the reason why the hospital board allowed Alyssia to stay; although undoubtedly an asset to the hospital, her aging guardian needed help from time to time. Alyssia thought about going downstairs to help the nurses with the bullet-wounded person, but only imagined herself being ushered out of the operating room. Spending her childhood doing so, ever since her foster mother brought her to Quebec, never deterred her from aspiring to be a nurse.  
  
"Don't worry. Everything will be okay." It was the man who had addressed the nurses before that spoke. Alyssia turned her eyes from the glistening hospital floor to face him. He was standing tall, smiling down on Alyssia with a Chinese or Japanese complexion. The man wore a long white coat signifying that he was a doctor, but Alyssia had never seen him among the medical staff before. She noticed that the palms of his hands were stained red.  
  
"Comment s'appelle t'il?" The question left her tear-stained lips before she realised how impertinent it sounded. However, the Asian gentleman found it amusing.  
  
"My name is Doctor Ling," he smiled. Although obviously foreign, he elocuted French perfectly. "Your name is Alyssia, yes?"  
  
"Yes," she replied quietly. She wondered how he knew her, because she had certainly never met Dr Ling before. He was skinny, and had a middle-aged face. Alyssia would have guessed his age at about fifty, give or take five years.  
  
"You are the foster daughter of one of the nurses here?" He enquired as pleasantly as Alyssia expected he could with his rasping voice. He lowered himself to where she sat. Alyssia said that she was, and pointed out her mother from where they sat on the bed. "I suppose that she was a friend of your mothers?"  
  
"Yes;" Alyssia began, "my real mother died when I was very little." It surprised Alyssia that she had stopped crying, and she wiped the drying tears from her face. She did not feel any less upset.  
  
"Yet you carry on. You have what they call a survival instinct, Alyssia. It will be your task to name the child; I have made sure of it."  
  
"Is his mamon dead too?" Alyssia asked after a brief pause brought about by the baby's scream, immediately making the link between the child and herself.  
  
"Yes, or at least she will be soon. The man downstairs tried to take the baby from us, but he won't last the night." Alyssia was not sure whether she liked Dr Ling: he did not talk about life and death like any doctor she had met before.  
  
"But you'll try to save him?"  
  
"It is... not my place. The La-li-lu-le-lo have forbidden it." Alyssia did not understand this sentence, and she did not think that Dr Ling expected her to. She did understand this though: this man was a doctor, and yet he was doing nothing to help the man downstairs, indeed he did not seem to want to. She wished that he would go away, and her tears began to swell up again.  
  
As though sensing her distress, Dr Ling got up to leave. "One more thing, Alyssia..." Ling turned to her again, and said before leaving, "The baby's second name is Gurlukovich. You can tell him that when he is older if you like, but always accredit his salvation to the Patriots." 


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two  
  
The apartment was small and dank, both rooms almost completely covered in a deep blanket of darkness. The only light came from a computer screen, which threw small pockets of light onto objects around the desk upon which it sat. Although it had not long been occupied, the room was filled with box upon box of technical equipment, carefully shielded from the drips of stagnant water that often fell from the dilapidated ceiling. It was late, but neither of the two occupants lay upon their tattered mattresses.  
  
A man sat upright at the monitor, typing diligently. From time to time the light from the monitor would leap from his glasses and dance on the ceiling above, but he never looked up to notice. His face told a tale of exhaustion, but he had never stopped for a rest over the week since his sister died. He had connected the computer up and set up the laser trip wires in the apartment all by himself, although assistance had been offered. Now he typed, looking up every link and crawling up every tunnel all the way to their frustrating dead ends.  
  
"Do you ever stop, Otacon?" The voice belonged to the other occupant of the room. He had been out, but had now returned to the run down apartment.  
  
"Not in this lifetime, Snake," came the final defiant reply. Otacon was somewhat surprised, and slightly frustrated, at first that the former FOXHOUND operative had managed to get all the way across the room to the light switch without tripping any lasers. "I ...didn't hear you come in."  
  
"Huh." Snake thought it ironic that this was the first time, in a career based around stealth, that someone had noticed how quiet he could be. He realised that Otacon didn't mean it as a joke before remembering that Otacon paid very little attention to him nowadays anyway. "How goes the search?" Snake said it more assertively than he meant to. The atmosphere in the room was tense with testosterone, and each word was tipped with an edge.  
  
"I'm trying. The kid hasn't been hidden in cyberspace." Otacon's voice creaked with tiredness. He didn't mean to sound agitated, but Snake immediately rounded on it. He needed nothing sounded out to him.  
  
"Good luck," Snake pursed sharply.  
  
"Look Snake, I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound rude. It's just that..."  
  
Otacon looked around the empty room in vain. This was not a recent disagreement; Snake and himself had been building stressed tension between each other since the Big Shell, and Otacon thought with anger at himself that he had done little if anything to stop it.  
  
It was at that moment that it all caught up with Hal Emmerich, dropping down on him from high above. He'd loved her; she was dead, but not the first. She had been so young, so vibrant; reunited...and now, instead of avenging her, he lived like bickering rat with the closest person left to him in the world, following filthy rodent's holes down to their dead concrete ends. How long would it be before they stepped on a Patriot mousetrap? How long before they were wiped out and covered over, a dirty secret never to be told again...  
  
Without knowing fully why, Otacon threw his glasses to the floor and slipped slowly from his chair to the ground, choking on his own saliva as he tried to inhale. He didn't know whether he cried for Wolf, or E.E., or for himself. It was enough to know that he cried.  
  
******  
  
Half a country away, a man's torture had been stopped. Release was imminent. He stumbled out into the unknown, body scarred and aching. Instinct drove him to his goal. When he fell in the hot desert sand he could hear his captors' voice laughing in his ear, this being the only force that would ever cause him to rise to his feet each time. Whoever he was, he would not die. Wherever he was, he would never give up. Revenge would be his.  
  
******  
  
Snake walked slowly down the small flight of steps from the apartments before stepping briskly into the heavy rain. His trench coat offered little protection, and his hand even less for the cigarette he attempted to light in vain. Dropping the now-useless smoke in a nearby puddle, he brought his jacket lapels up around his face and began to step gradually down the New York backstreet. More than anything, he hid his face from the opening heavens rather than potential bounty hunters. He had needed to get away though; he was frankly sick of Otacon's constant irritation. It seemed more and more now that Otacon strongly disapproved of many of Snake's actions, such as smoking. Over the past week he refused Snake's help setting up several pieces of technical equipment, waving it away with a motion of his hand. It had been the very same type of superiority "we're right, you're wrong, do it our way" complex crap that had driven Snake out of the CIA, and he'd be damned to Hell if he were going to be spoon-fed it courtesy of his own comrade...  
  
The sky continued to weep while Snake walked over the streets and jogged through his consciousness. A blind preacher had stood just metres from where Snake now was and shouted to the heavens about the creation. Snake could not remember the last time he had trusted his fate to any being other than himself, and he had certainly not prayed since Shadow Moses. When he uncovered his manufactured and soulless roots, whatever link with heaven the lone soldier had was severed.  
  
The dank odour of spirits and urine hung in the atmosphere. Steam rose out of rusted iron gratings and tainted the nostrils and glass hung shattered and useless from nearby window frames. Without meaning to, Snake had walked into the slums. The people around him had gradually grown less numerous. No amount of feigned ignorance on behalf of the city council could smother the slum's existence. Not unlike Philanthropy was to the Patriots, the slum lingered like a purpled eye on the Mayor's office's collective face. None moved in, few moved out; things rarely changed.  
  
But that night someone had entered. Snake walked down the black wet streets harbouring little fear. From time to time, cracked voices would arise from out of the dark, never quickening the pace of his steps. He expected an attack eventually: drugs ran as fast as water in this neighbourhood, and mugged money was the tap.  
  
However, when the attack finally came the former covert was caught unprepared. A blow found his kidneys, and the glint of a blade caught the corner of his eye. Snake twisted round, and brought his elbow into his attacker's solar plexus. Instinct. A second forearm brought the assaulter to his knees, and it was Snake's knuckles that smashed the man unconscious. Snake stepped back, holding his lower back in pain. He threw his coat to the ground and slumped onto an overturned bench. A stabbing pain was gripping his kidneys, and suddenly he felt the need to relieve himself. The man in front of him was beginning to stir. Enraged, Snake stumbled forward in agony and swung a kick hard into the addict's groaning face. Blood poured from the man's head, and he rolled backwards before laying still on the soaked pavement.  
  
I had no right. He was distraught with himself. The man had attacked to satisfy what had become his most basic need: money for the next fix. It had been wrong of Snake to consider him the lowest sort of man. Snake could not bring himself to turn the body over; he instead fell to the floor nearby. The pain from his back was now unbelievable, and Snake could see his own grimace in the reflection of the attacker's bloodied knife. It hit Snake. He hadn't been punched in the back: the attacker had led with his switchblade, bringing it through Snake's organs. It wasn't the same rain that had dulled Snake's hearing to allow the man's assailment that now soaked Snake's hands, but Snake's own lifeblood. The cold spread from within through his entire body and slowly smothered his consciousness, enshrouding him like a lover. The cold brought on darkness, which gripped his vision, and the former commando's head hit the pavement. He reached for the last thing he saw before the dark overtook him: the bottom of a white doctor's coat... 


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three  
  
The phone was ringing.  
  
Otacon rose from the floor slowly. He didn't know how long he'd been crying for or even fully what he had cried about; just that the apartment telephone was now ringing. He shuffled towards it, wiped his eyes and picked up the receiver by instinct alone. A cold chill ran down his spine in tune with the thrashing wind outside the window.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
There was silence on the line, and for a second Otacon thought that the caller had hung up. Otacon repeated himself and, hearing no reply, was about to hang up himself.  
  
"Hello, Hal."  
  
It was a familiar voice, one that Otacon had heard many times before, though not recently. Otacon reaffirmed his grip on the receiver.  
  
"Mei...hi." Otacon answered, trying to remember the last time he had spoken to Mei Ling.  
  
"Hal, I'm sorry to call you at this hour but...I've just received an anonymous e-mail," she paused, and Otacon strained to hear her quiet voice. "It said that my dad is still alive."  
  
Otacon withdrew breath sharply, without meaning to. He was still crying softly. "Have you tried to trace it?" he asked eventually.  
  
"My equipment was stolen." Mei Ling iterated. "That's why I rang. The digital tracer, the ET I sent you...is it still working?"  
  
She sounded so distant..."I haven't tested it for a while. I give it a go though. Forward it to me."  
  
"Okay." She spoke more softly than ever. It was at that moment that they both realised that the other one had been crying. There was more silence on the line as Mei sent the message through her broadband connection. Otacon felt her pain: he too had lost his father, because of his own selfishness. No doubt in a few days he would sit beside the phone and listen all about yet another break up with one of her boyfriends, offering comfort from time to time despite knowing the real reason why she cried. It had become their ritual: her attempting to hide her feelings despite realising Otacon's true knowledge; him never letting on.  
  
"I've got it." Otacon heard the computer bleep. He sat at his desk, only to find that he couldn't see a thing. He instinctively touched the top of his head for his glasses, only to remember their smashing in his tantrum before. Otacon felt more ashamed than ever. "I...I can't see, Mei," he began reluctantly. "My glasses broke."  
  
"Oh..."  
  
"Hang on..." Otacon remembered his spare pair. They were in a cupboard in the kitchen. He struggled forward, the wireless receiver tucked between his head and shoulders and his arms outstretched, into the kitchen. He squinted around, trying to remember which way the cupboard was.  
  
"Are you okay?" Mei Ling asked over the phone. Otacon replied that he was, and reached for the nearest door handle to steady himself. However, presently he slipped on water that had dripped from the windowsill into an untidy puddle and fell hard. He went crashing to the floor, bringing several television dinner trays down on top of him. The receiver flew from his hand, and he heard a shout on the other end of it before it slid under the filthy breakfast table. His head throbbed, and his entire left leg stung.  
  
"Shit..." Otacon tried to stand, but his leg ached when he did so. He thought he must have gone over on his ankle. He lay on the cold tiled floor, crippled, blind, and alone.  
  
"Need a hand?" The voice that spoke was familiar and nearby. Otacon recognised it immediately. Relieved, Otacon forgot all about their previous argument.  
  
"Snake..." Otacon began. "You're back." A strong arm helped Otacon to his feet and silently led him through the doorway and back to his desk. Otacon was about to tell Snake about Mei Ling, but he was quickly handed the receiver. He took it, and spoke quickly. There had been something unnerving in Snake's voice that Otacon was yet to fully pick up on...  
  
"I'm back, Mei. Are you still there?"  
  
"I'm still here, Hal. What happened?"  
  
"Took a tumble. Snake helped me though."  
  
"Oh good," Mei replied. "Is he still there?"  
  
"Sure. You wanna speak to him?" He was about to call Snake, but Mei declined.  
  
"I'd rather just get this e-mail thing over with," she explained.  
  
"Fair enough. I'll tell him you said "hi"." Otacon put his hand down on the desk as he cheerfully told her this, and felt his spare glasses.  
  
"Oh, thanks Snake," he shouted. There came no reply. Otacon thought aloud rather disappointedly that he must have gone back out anyway (and a spectacle-assisted quick glance around confirmed this), before starting the tracing program up at Mei Ling's prompt.  
  
The Electronic Tracer was a hardware addition, created by Mei Ling herself. It was a very advanced piece of technology, beyond perhaps even Otacon of inventing, engineer though he is. It could trace e-mails, phone calls and even codec conversations back to their source using US Military Satellites already in orbit. Although strictly illegal, Otacon had found it to be invaluable when Philanthropy came across these types of situations. Unfortunately, a high tech Patriot virus that had temporarily disabled the Tracer had enforced the e-mail signed E.E. that Otacon had received in 2007. In a fit of inner rage, Otacon had never used it since, despite fixing it.  
  
While waiting for the trace to finish, Otacon decided to have a look at the e-mail itself. He clicked on it onscreen, hoping that he wasn't taking to far a personal liberty. It read:  
  
ML,  
  
I HAVE BEEN FORBIDDEN FROM REVEALING THIS TO YOU FROM MORE THAN ONE SUPERIOR, BUT YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO KNOW.  
  
YOUR FATHER STILL LIVES.  
  
PLEASE, HOWEVER, DO NOT TRY TO SEEK HIM OUT. THE REBELLION CANNOT SUCCEED WHILE HE LIVES. HE WILL FALL AT OUR HAND.  
  
I KNOW YOU WILL TRY TO TRACE THIS NO MATTER WHAT I WRITE HERE. SO I BID YOU FAREWELL, AND GOOD LUCK.  
  
CF  
  
Otacon rounded immediately on the signature. "I thought you said it was anonymous."  
  
"It is," Mei answered, before defining the term: "CF doesn't want us to know who he is."  
  
"You're right. Sorry, I don't have much experience with this type of thing," Otacon lied unconvincingly. Mei Ling ignored it. The rain still tapped sharply on the windows, and from time to time the wind would whistle strongly through the cracks in the walls. Otacon shivered again.  
  
"What do you think it means about "The Rebellion"?" Otacon inquired, trying to further conversation.  
  
"I really couldn't care less..." She was getting distressed. Otacon decided not to say any more until the trace had finished. A pleasant beep eventually signalled this, to Otacon's relief. He had grown to hate silence over his solitary life.  
  
"The location is just coming through..." Otacon clicked on the necessary icon. It took a few seconds before a latitude/longitude sequence was revealed. "39º 15' North, 119º 74' West," Otacon quoted.  
  
"That's not very exact," Mei Ling almost sobbed. "That covers the whole of the Nevada Desert."  
  
"Don't worry Mei. Snake and I will look into it for you"  
  
"Thanks, Otacon." In her house miles up the coast, she wiped her eyes and smiled. "You're a really good friend. I'm so lucky to have you."  
  
"Don't mention it Mei," Otacon answered. "I'll be in touch."  
  
It was a while after Otacon put the phone that a thought suddenly jumped into his head. He left his desk and ran over to a box that was serving as their bookcase. Tearing the sellotape from the top, Otacon rummaged through in search of his military atlas.  
  
Eventually, he came to what he was looking for. He ripped the atlas from the bottom of the box and went back his desk. It was top secret; anyone less than a CIA director wasn't supposed to have it. Holding the atlas under the reading light, he flipped through the pages towards the location that the ET had come up with. Coming to the page, he dropped the book in amazement as it all came to him. He murmured something, almost inaudible, under his breath.  
  
"Area 51..."  
  
--  
  
Author's note: I know, I know, another short chapter. This will continue for some time due to the constant change of locations, but bear with me. I'm building to something.  
  
P.S. At the risk of giving away the storyline, can I just say that "CF" has nothing to do with me. I may be a confessed egomaniac, but I'm not putting myself into the story. 


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four  
  
A long, piecing mechanical noise cut through the air in the operating theatre. Two electroplates hung dead from the cardiac machine as the commands and desperate attempts from the surgeons stopped as abruptly as the beep that was still hanging unnaturally in the atmosphere. Alyssia entered the room and was met by solemn complexions partially obscured by anti-infectious masks. Each step she took lasted a lifetime, but she eventually came to the bed where the deceased lay. A surgeon who had removed his gloves looked at his watch and duly announced in French:  
  
"Time of death...six minutes past one in the morning of April 12th 2009."  
  
Alyssia drew closer to the bed, but before she could look upon the dead face the doctor who had spoke pulled the sheet over the patient's body. All Alyssia saw form where she was standing at the head of the bed was the dead man's short blonde haircut, shaved at the sides, before the surgeon blanketed the head. The face had remained an enigma.  
  
Alyssia instinctively covered her mouth. All around her people looked downcast. One surgeon removed her mask and cried softly into it. A friend put an arm around her shoulders and held her close. Alyssia stood alone, companionless and exhausted.  
  
"How is the child that was brought in with him?" Alyssia heard another surgeon ask the doctor.  
  
"I have heard nothing. He must be okay..." The doctor turned around and saw Alyssia. "Alyssia, how is the baby?" he asked gradually. Everything was held in a permanent slow motion to Alyssia, but as he removed his mask she recognised him instantly.  
  
"He's...fine, Doctor Rene." She said eventually. She suddenly remembered why she had come down to the theatre.  
  
"Doctor Rene?" She asked. He looked at her kindly and answered. "Who is Doctor Ling?"  
  
The acted cheerfulness fell from Doctor Rene's face. "He is not from here," Rene spoke at last in his now un-muffled tone. This was a disappointing answer, and looking at Rene's face Alyssia didn't think he was going to say much else on the matter. She had always trusted Doctor Rene: he had taught her all of the medical techniques that her mother didn't, but she wasn't about to let this go. As Doctor Rene looked towards the ground, Alyssia prepared her next question. Before she could ask it though, Rene spoke again.  
  
"Could you leave us please, Jean?" The man complied, and Rene turned and walked towards the door, beckoning Alyssia to follow. She did so, and they stepped out into the shiny corridor. They walked for a while longer, up and down the disinfected pathways and bleached entrances, until Doctor Rene finally spoke.  
  
"Do you remember," he began his question inquisitively as they walked, "when I taught you about Hippocrates?"  
  
"Yes," Alyssia paused, as one does when a conversation is beginning again.  
  
"And you remember the Hippocratic oath?" Rene continued. This seemed like a strange question, and Alyssia didn't know where it was leading. However, she trusted Doctor Rene, and answered that she did remember.  
  
"Well," Rene went on. The faked cheerful face had not quite returned. "Doctor Ling is like this generation's Hippocrates. He his respected in medical circles the world round and his techniques are second to none. He has the widest medical knowledge of anyone I have ever met." Alyssia began to feel uncomfortable; she had always had the largest respect for doctors, all except Doctor Ling.  
  
"And yet," the doctor continued, "He does not respect the Hippocratic Oath. He is unique among doctors that he never had to swear by it."  
  
"Why not? I thought you said that to be a doctor..."  
  
"You must swear by The Oath, yes," he interrupted her. "But Doctor Ling has not. There is not record of him doing so. Doctor Ling moves in many circles, and it is said that he has many contacts in very high places. That is how he might have avoided it.  
  
"That is the how," the doctor continued. He looked more tired and ancient than ever. He was only middle aged, but furrowed his brow beneath his greying hair like an old soothsayer. "Now, do doubt you wish to know the why." Alyssia nodded: she truthfully had no idea why a doctor would want to avoid the Oath. "To that, I'm afraid, no answer is available. Maybe you'll find out someday." He smiled weekly down at his young pupil, but she did not return it.  
  
Alyssia had known Dr Rene for as long as she could remember. The earliest memory she had was of him treating her the first time she caught influenza. She could not have been more than three years old at the time, but he never once patronised her with the word 'flu. Whenever he spoke to her, it would always be as though he was speaking to a medical colleague, not the stepchild of his former lover. It had been the most embarrassing moment of her life on her seventh birthday party when she ran in and called him "dad".  
  
Alyssia had forgotten her tiredness, but realised that she had not noticed where they were walking. The two physicians; one tall and learned, one young and learning; yet irrevocably linked, stepped towards the office marked with the gold letters that spelt out: "Dr D.P. Rene." Dr Rene unlocked the door and held it open for Alyssia. She graciously stepped inside, wondering why she had been led here.  
  
"Take a seat, Mademoiselle." Alyssia recognised the voice immediately. It was Doctor Ling. For the second time that long night, she felt like crying merely by the depression caused by Ling's presence.  
  
Alyssia looked towards Doctor Rene, who was shutting the door, his head down.  
  
"What have you told her, David?" Ling asked with an almost hissing tone. With the Doctor's gold lamp flickering only partial light, Ling looked more sinister than ever.  
  
"Nothing...of importance." Alyssia was scared; she thought that Ling would immediately notice the tenseness in Doctor Rene's voice. However, he merely smiled and said that it was good that it was so.  
  
"Take a seat, Ms Markova." Ling repeated his instruction with greater assertion. She was filled with fear, but wasn't going to show it. She sat down with an air of defiance, and as she did so she heard the key turn in Doctor Rene's door, locking it tight.  
  
"Excellent." Ling said, before concluding, "Well, now that we are all here, we can get down to business."  
  
"Je ne comprends pas..." Alyssia began. She certainly did not understand; she knew not why a man she had known and trusted from her very first memory would lead her to Ling like this.  
  
"I have heard of your considerable medical skills, Alyssia. It was my intention that you would be the one to nurse our young Mr Gurlukovich in an environment familiar to you. However, it has been brought to my attention that there are those who would find him in an ordinary hospital such as this one. They would...mean to take him from us, even though we have moved him out of the US."  
  
"Take him?" Alyssia asked, momentarily forgetting the dead man on the operating table downstairs. "Who would want to take a baby?"  
  
"Two men," he paused. "Two Americans who have made it their mission to bring about our downfall."  
  
"Our downfall?" It was Rene who spoke up. He was walking away from the door towards his own desk at which Ling sat. "What do you mean? Are you still in league with Clark...?"  
  
"Doctor Clark is dead," Ling continued calmly. Although the same age more or less as Rene, Ling still despite the lamp highlighting his features in its gold glow looked much younger. "Killed by one of his own creations."  
  
"How...long...?" Rene breathed his words in shock.  
  
"Four years ago, almost to the day. It was never announced." Ling paused. "I speak for the La-li-lu-le-lo."  
  
Alyssia had been left behind, but she meant to catch up. "I want to stay here in Quebec, Dr Ling," she interjected finally.  
  
Ling had been looking at her the whole time, even when Rene had been talking. He moved his head slightly off his clasped hands and grinned, before finally adding, "I'm afraid that's an impossibility. It has already been decided."  
  
"No." Rene spoke again. "I'm not letting you take her to one of your FOXHOUND training grounds!"  
  
"I think you're said enough, David."  
  
"Oh, have I? I might have co-operated with you before, Nicholas, but no longer. You can't force her away from her mother!" Rene continued with his advance, until he could put his hands firmly down on his desk. "Get out of my office!"  
  
Alyssia saw a flare of hatred in both men's eyes by the lamp's focused glow. She was more scared than ever, but relieved. No one she had ever met had refused one of Doctor Rene's instructions. But at that moment, a gun revealed itself from under the desk in Ling's hand. He pointed it straight at Rene's chest.  
  
"No!" Alyssia stood up without realising it. She didn't want Dr Rene to die; with all her heart she would protect him and the baby. Even if it meant leaving her mother. Dr Rene looked at her; Ling's eyes stayed focused on his gun's tip. "I'll go. Just don't hurt him."  
  
The look of horror in Dr Rene's face was one that she had never seen before. It scared her more than Ling's gun ever could. He screamed, and as fast as lightning went to attack Ling. Ling's gun barked, and her mentor fell sprawling to the floor, blood streaming from his wound and darkening the colour of his white coat. He was dead.  
  
It was Alyssia's turn to scream. She looked on in abhorrence at her teacher's slumped corpse, and turned a look of revulsion on Ling.  
  
"Now, Alyssia," Ling said calmly, retreating back into his seat. "I have business to attend to in New York tomorrow night, so let's make this quick." Her glance had caught Ling's, and they stood in eye contact with one another. As hard as Alyssia tried, she couldn't turn away from his demon-like eyes. For the briefest of moments, Alyssia would have sworn that she had seen two young girls, twins, reflected in Ling's dark pupils, both dressed from head to toe in white frocks. The image faded, and Ling began to speak. However, Alyssia didn't notice. All that she knew was that she was doing what he told her to do...  
  
--  
  
Author's note: This is set a day before Chapter Two, and on the same night as Chapter One. Chapter 3 continues straight from Chapter Two, i.e. half an hour later. 


	6. Chapter Five

Chapter Five  
  
"Otacon, it's four in the morning."  
  
Mei Ling slowly pushed herself from out of the bedcovers up her headrest. It was dark; even if she had opened her eyes she wouldn't have been able to see.  
  
"I know, Mei. Just turn on the news. Please."  
  
Mei reached across her bed for the lamp. She was tired, but Otacon sounded desperate, and she was sure he had a good reason for this. After feeling for a while around the top surface of her bedside, she slid her small, but perfectly formed, hand up the light's ceramic and found the switch.  
  
"What's this all about, Hal?" she enquired while rummaging in the bedside drawer for the remote control. "Did you get any further with...?"  
  
She stopped her sentence dead. Her television screen, already set to the news channel as Otacon had often asked her to do ("in case the Patriots ever made a slip up" had been how he justified it), revealed the burning rubble of a building. Still-flaming corpses were being slowly dragged out from underneath twisted steel girders by soot-faced firemen; and onlookers watched in horror as hopeful rescuers ripped charred limbs out of the wreckage. It made for a very gruesome scene. Mei Ling put her hand to her mouth in shock.  
  
"Otacon..." she managed to horse.  
  
"Please, Mei. Trust me. Just listen to the commentary..."  
  
Mei Ling stroked the sound up to the tenth notch. The reporter, half way through his speech, continued:  
  
"...The three hundred and seventy two of the medical staff are all missing, and none of the just under one thousand patients have been found alive. It is thought that nobody survived the explosion."  
  
"Okay, Hal. Why are you making me watch this?"  
  
"Don't you see?" Otacon hated doing this to Mei. It was late, and she was going through a very rough time. But he vitally needed her help. "The Patriots must have taken Olga's child to a hospital. A week later, all the staff...all the witnesses are obliterated. The evidence destroyed. This must have been the place where the kid was."  
  
Mei Ling sighed in horror again as a mother was shown screaming in French for her child, tears pouring down her face like water from a tap as a reporter attempted to interview her.  
  
"You...you don't think it might just be a coincidence?"  
  
"I don't run Philanthropy on false hope, Mei. I'm sure of this. All I'm saying for now is that it could have something to do with that e-mail you got," he said, hoping she wouldn't ask how far he'd gotten with tracing it. False hope, Otacon thought, was not what he needed to give her right now.  
  
"What do you want me to do?" Mei conceded. "You've got all the contacts."  
  
"I need to talk to Snake. His codec is being blocked by some kind of electrical interference and his mobile's turned off."  
  
"Don't you guys kinda...live together?" Mei replied, now beginning to awaken properly. She rubbed her eyes and sat further up in bed. The television had now moved on to American Football team news.  
  
"I haven't seem him since last night. We...had an argument." Shame burned within him again. Why can't I shake this feeling, he thought. "I don't know why he came back while you rang, but he up and left again."  
  
There was a short pause. "What can I do?" she finally enquired again.  
  
"I need some sort of anti-dampening field for codec transmissions. Do you have one?"  
  
"You can download it from my website. Still got the password?"  
  
"SHADOWMOSES, right?"  
  
Mei yawned an answer.  
  
"Thanks Mei," Otacon said. "I know you're going through a tough time. I really appreciate this. Don't worry about anything. We might have been on the ropes for a while, but we're not down and out yet."  
  
She sighed, imagining his patronisingly fake optimistic smile, and switched off the television with her control. "Be careful. It is said one should keep his broken arm inside his sleeve."  
  
Otacon smiled. "Is that another Chinese proverb, Mei?"  
  
"No. Just common sense." She too smiled, before they both said their goodbyes and hung up. She had thought for a long time about what her feelings would be if she ever met her father, and at that moment remembered another proverb: to know the road ahead, ask those coming back. Turning on the nanomachines in her neck with a push to her soft skin, as one might do to a pacemaker, Mei tuned her codec into the frequency 140.85. Two people she used to know answered to this frequency, but she only wanted one. As expected, there was no response. Unbowed, She turned off the lights and slipped back under her bedcovers. It had been a long shot. 


	7. Chapter Six

Chapter Six  
  
Dr James Dawson sat awkwardly on his over-cluttered desk, a coffee in one hand and a men's interest magazine in the other. He had gone well over his twenty-minute lunch break, but continued to turn the pages with almost clockwork frequency. He slowed from time to time, to look over anything that caught his eye, but his mind wasn't fully switched on. The amount of reading that took place was almost non-existent. Sometimes he considered retreating to his dormitory quarters with the magazine, but he would be called upon eventually. The pieces of fuck that ran the place always found him: they had fucking cameras everywhere.  
  
There was a knock on the door of his office. What did they want now? Another fucking stool sample to be taken? He shifted in his seat, knocking several papers and magazines on the office floor. Cursing, he shouted for the knocker to enter. A tall man in smartly pressed military uniform craned his head around the half open door frame. Bender, thought Dawson.  
  
"Sorry to disturb you sir, but you've been requested by the medical bay." The soldier paused for a reaction. Receiving none, he continued, "I've been ordered to accompany you there."  
  
The Doctor gave no indication that he had heard the uniformed man other than a sharp curse that lead from his pursed lips. He continued to look at his coffee cup for a few seconds longer, as though considering one last sip, until the gangly soldier prompted him again.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Dr Dawson finally rose, rather clumsily, from his desk, sending yet more magazines sliding along the polished ground towards the soldier's feet. He walked noisily toward the door and allowed the escort to hold it open for him before storming off down the silvery-grey corridor, his large and ungainly form moving from side to side. The soldier closed the office door as swiftly as his highly trained movements would allow before marching with difficulty after the fast-advancing medic.  
  
Dawson had always thought it goddamn queer how cheerful, almost _happy_, the other doctors seemed to be with their jobs at the complex. To him it was do this, clean that, carry the shit through here, pick your money up on the way out over and over, with only one of those actions appealing to him in any way. The others daydreamed their way around the place like it was their idea of heaven, a heaven that they'd built. Hell, they even talked to each other about it. He knew all the looks they gave him when he turned his back rather than join in their admiration for the base and its history. Pity him? They should take a good look at themselves, fucking puffs.  
  
He passed the vending machine and slowed his pace. He had only had one burger for lunch in his haste to get back to the magazine. He stopped and checked his pockets for change, looking longingly at the last Mars bar.  
  
"Sir?" The soldier addressed him again. Ignoring him, Dawson counted out thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-six cents. Damn, just short. "They said it was urgent," the soldier continued. Fuck you sergeant, Dawson thought to himself.  
  
"I'm sorry, Sergeant," said Dawson, fully aware that the soldier fell well below that rank. He allowed himself a giggle at his joke. "I'll just be a second." He imagined the look on the fucker's face as he searched his shirt pocket.  
  
The guard waited patiently for Dawson to find the extra four cents he needed from his pants pocket and slot three of them into the machine, and then for him to retrieve the fourth from underneath the vender.  
  
"Want a bite?" Dawson asked of the soldier when he finally pulled the chocolate from the vending flap.  
  
"Sir, we should be moving on," the man replied. His face remained as without emotion as he could manage. "They expected you five minutes ago."  
  
Dawson took a second to indulge himself in a fantasy of the soldier before him dying of AIDS in a lonely military hospital with only his male bitch and a few superiors waiting for him to pass on. Maybe then they'd take the rod out of his ass.  
  
"Yes Sergeant," Dawson smiled again. "Sorry Sergeant."  
  
They walked on through the winding corridors and twisting narrow staircases of the base toward the medical wing, Dawson munching his Mars bar slowly. When they finally arrived at the entrance, the officer stepped to the side of the sliding doors opposite another guard. They saluted upwards as Dawson walked between them. He shoved the empty chocolate wrapper into his pocket and felt it stick to the trouser leg lining. He wiped his smudged hands on his pants and grinned at the two guards, before stepping swiftly through the retracting automatic door.  
  
The blue light struck Doctor James Dawson's eyes like an I-beam and made him turn his head away. Bright lights had always made him nervous. Just then, someone called his name and, turning to the right, he viewed his addresser. Although the light had skewed his vision momentarily, he instantly recognised the man as his immediate superior, Doctor Alan Monroe. It was common knowledge that Monroe, having worked with and under some of the best medical doctors in the western world (including one David Rene), was a capable but arrogant physician. He'd come far since his days as a military field medic, and didn't let many forget it. Even worse in Dawson's eyes, he was black. Just what he needed, today of all days: a nigger with a superiority complex. His temples twinged with aggravation.  
  
"Dawson," he repeated sharply. Dawson squinted and murmured an acknowledgement. "What took you so long?"  
  
"Damn guard," Dawson replied. "Had to stop to tie his bootlaces." Monroe looked at him strangely. As part of his regimen, Monroe always addressed people by their surnames. People said it was a sign that you had not yet earned his respect, an assumption Dawson would regard as bullshit.  
  
"Be that as it may, we needed you here ten minutes ago," Monroe barked. "The subject has completed his second session."  
  
"With what results?" Dawson inquired with feigned interest.  
  
Monroe gave him another piercing glance. "The same as the other fifty- fucking-two today: negative. He's not cracking." Monroe sighed, and turned his head toward the floor. "It only took Ling twenty-five to make that other sumbitch say he was "no-one"." This was not a sign of disrespect: hardly anyone spoke of Ling by his first name.  
  
They began to walk towards the interview room's door. "What's Ling saying?" In the years he'd known Doctor Ling, Dawson only ever had one opinion of him: stuck up, scary bastard. But he'd never known him to fail.  
  
"He's saying that the results are bound to be different. This one is the real deal, the other was merely a failed test."  
  
"I knew he'd have an excuse. He'll be blaming Clark again next." Dawson sniggered.  
  
Monroe was silent. Everyone knew how much he respected Ling, but it was also everyone's knowledge that Monroe would reach to the moon and back to kiss a Patriot backside.  
  
They came to the cell's retinal scanner. Monroe went first, placing his cranium in the scanner's blue beam. The beam turned a light green, and did so again when Dawson squeezed his head into the socket. If Dawson was alone he would have been unable to enter, such was the base's security levels.  
  
The interview room, gleaming with steel reflective light, had earned the nickname "The Cell" among medical staff and privileged guards who had chanced to see it. The metal beams bent the Cell upwards into a spherical shape, and the steel bars that ran across gave the room the appearance of a round jail cell window.  
  
Strapped to the furthest wall from the entrance was a man, or at least the semblance of a man. His head, once covered in long brown locks, had been shaved bald to the scalp and hung limp on his chest. He was naked, and looking at him made Dawson nervous. His entire body was blanketed in electro-burns.  
  
"Is he unconscious?" Dawson asked. The air around the prisoner was humid and smelled of burned meat.  
  
"Yeah," Monroe answered. He began to undo the man's manacles.  
  
"I don't care what Ling says," Dawson iterated. "He looks exactly the same as the last one." Monroe undid the last strap, and the man slid to the floor, facing up. His eyelids flickered irregularly, and the bloodshot whites of his eyes could be seen. "'Cept the other one never did that."  
  
"Apparently, he calls out in his sleep too. Something about a liquid." Monroe lifted him by his arms. "You gonna just stand there, Dawson?"  
  
Dawson gripped the man's legs and together they lay him down on the table that rose from the Cell's floor. The cold metal froze Dawson's hands, and he pulled away quickly.  
  
"Shall we do this formally?" Monroe inquired. "Or just fix the bastard up?"  
  
"Might as well fill out the papers," Dawson grunted. It's more than my fucking job's worth with Ling around, thought Dawson.  
  
Monroe sighed and raised his personal mike to his mouth and announced: "Subject number: 2A. Personnel: Monroe, Alan Malcolm, PhD and Dawson, James, MD." Monroe clicked the mike off. "Now shall we begin?"  
  
Dawson didn't feel like exchanging pleasantries. "Subject covered with electricity burns, possible third and second degree..." he began, prompting Monroe to once again click his mike on. "...On both arms, right leg and upper torso."  
  
"Personnel Monroe applying iodine," Monroe unscrewed a bottle of dark blue liquid and dabbed it on to the subject's numerous wounds before bandaging them with surgical aids. "Ready to turn him over?"  
  
"Let's do it." Dawson pretended to help Monroe turn the man's body over but actually let the surgeon do it himself. When the man was face down, Dawson immediately noticed the thin cut in his back. It looked like something had been slid clean through the skin. "Penetration wound to the lower abdomen, possible knife attack"  
  
"We've already treated that," Monroe growled, switching the microphone off as he said it. "He had that when Ling brought him in." This surprised Dawson. The wound was pretty deep, and it looked fresh. Fucking cowboys.  
  
"How did we capture him?" Dawson asked. "Isn't he an international terrorist?" Dawson knew just enough about current affairs to recognise the man as the sinker of the tanker Discovery a few years back. Dawson never understood why everyone saw the sinking as such a big deal: a few dolphins get their gills an extra oil coat, so what?  
  
"We got lucky. Our agents were doing a routine surveillance check of Manhattan and found this mutherfucker kicking seven shades of shit outta some poor hobo."  
  
Great, thought Dawson. First this guy coats a few seagulls, now he's clearing up those lazy homeless bastards. "Hope he goes after the niggers next," murmured Dawson.  
  
"Huh?" Monroe gave him another look.  
  
"Nothin'." Dawson thought about the queue-less vending machine. "You wanna turn the tape back on and we can finish up?"  
  
The recorder was once again turned on with a swift click.  
  
"Bruises to the back of the head... did our boys do that to him?" Monroe spoke, switching the recorder off in mid-sentence.  
  
"Musta done," Dawson said. How the fuck was he supposed to know? All he was ever told was which way it was to the bathroom, and even then they hid the toilet paper. "Superficial lacerations to the temple."  
  
"Who did that?"  
  
Dawson was about to get really annoyed when the hum of the Cell's far door announced that company was to be expected. Both men rose from their standing slouches when they saw who it was. Dawson even began a vain attempt hold in his stomach, but gave up when the futility of it struck him.  
  
"Gentlemen," the cool, crisp voice of Dr Nicolas Ling echoed eerily around the room. "I'll be brief. I have received word from Our Mutual Friends. I have new posts for each of you."  
  
Dawson broke a sweat. He looked across the table at Monroe. His hands shook like feathers in the wind.  
  
"James," Ling had begun to walk towards him. A more fitting description would be stroll: Ling walked like he hadn't a care in the world, occasionally stopping to roll his head up at the ceiling. He had the stance of a man who was taking his Sunday morning walk through the local park. "You've been removed from the project. You'll now help train our newest member and aid her in the assistance of our new subject."  
  
"What... what about this subject?" Monroe's voice cracked. "Are we disposing of him?"  
  
"Results have not been positive. His purpose has been altered." Ling spoke in such a manner of fact way that Dawson was surprised when Monroe spoke again.  
  
"This new member... is it Rene's prodigy that you told us about?"  
  
Ling paused for a few moments, before finally answering: "Your assumption is correct."  
  
This conversation was passing Dawson by, but he wouldn't have it any other way. Talking to Ling sent chills down his spine. Monroe looked bigger in his eyes than ever before. But then, he hadn't just been assigned to baby sit one of Rene's snot-nosed kids.  
  
"And what is my new job?" Monroe grew bolder. "I thought that I was gonna work here for the next six months at least?"  
  
The corners of Ling's mouth curled into a strange smile, one the likes of neither man had seen before. The cold grey of his eyes transfixed them both.  
  
"I shall show you to your new quarters myself," Ling finally answered.  
  
"But Doctor, we haven't finished the autopsy..." Monroe began, but his voice trailed off when his eyes once again fell on Ling's. Ling beckoned with his hand, and Monroe left the table and walked gingerly towards the door, shaking uncharacteristically like a leaf. He exited first, but just before Dawson was about to be left alone with the patient Ling turned and held up his long, twisted index finger, as though he had forgotten something.  
  
"Dawson, your new occupation will start the day after tomorrow when Ms Markova arrives. She is young, headstrong, but will be easily moulded." Ling smiled again. "Even by an ill-educated buffoon such as yourself."  
  
"Yes, sir, Doctor Ling," Dawson repeated robotically. He daren't even think anything against Ling while the old conjurer was occupying the same breathing space, let alone say anything. He held his breath again, wondering momentarily where Monroe was being taken. The man on the autopsy table began to stir.  
  
Ling turned to leave, but once again stopped. "Oh, and James?" He began. "Sedate this worthless bastard and strap him back up against the wall." He motioned at the man on the table, and left without another word.  
  
--  
  
Author's note: So, what do you think? Longer, wasn't it? More satisfying, do you feel? Tell me what you think in your review. Now. 


	8. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven  
  
Otacon awoke from dreamless sleep. He strained his ears to hear the noise that had awakened him, but after a mere few seconds of silence concluded that his over-tired mind must have conjured it.  
  
He lay awake for a while, staring at the ceiling and listening to the soft camera-like clicks of his eyelids when he blinked. He wanted to be back at his computer, searching for some sort of loose end that had been left untied. He wondered for the hundredth time about Snake's whereabouts and prayed silently that the download would work. Despite what they'd agreed during Shadow Moses, their relationship had become so much more than strictly business.  
  
After a while, his back grew too accustomed to the bed and he wanted out. Rising, he clicked the small reading light beside his bed on and picked up his glasses from on top of his book. After placing them gently on his face while considering whether contacts would make things easier or harder he left the small wall outlet that passed for a bedroom and stepped slowly into the main room, his bare feet gingerly tracing over splintered wood. He almost instinctively walked to the blue monitor that provided the room's only light, but remembered that the files would take at least another few hours to translate into the nanomachines. A cigarette end stood solitary in an ashtray beside the keyboard, reminding him of his friend's peril. He felt totally helpless; but it was a feeling that he had associated with the work desk from which he had monitored Snake's many missions since 2005.  
  
A noise disturbed his thought pattern, stirring him once more to awareness of the physical world. It was a faint ratting, followed by a small series of scratches, repeated continuously. He'd heard it the night before, when he slipped in the kitchen floor and Snake had returned...  
  
Had that been Snake? Otacon pondered as he squinted around the darkness for whatever could be making the constant sound. Snake was certainly the only person he knew of who could evade the security system that the deceivingly dilapidated apartment contained. But Otacon questioned why Snake would disappear so soon after returning, especially with Patriot activity suddenly becoming an issue again. If he'd been captured by a bounty hunter or a squad team then it would have been announced all over the news and the tabloids would be full of Philanthropy's terrorist activities. Unless it served the Wiseman's Committee better to keep someone close to Snake in the dark...  
  
Shit...  
  
Otacon cursed as the thought crossed his mind. He slid open one of the workstation's drawers as quietly as he could, still training his eyes around the black room. His fingers, now shivering, closed around the handle of a berretta and drew it silently but quickly out of the drawer. If Snake had been captured without the press knowing, Otacon had already had enough time to get out of the city. He cursed himself for his blindness, shoved his berretta down the back of his pyjama bottoms and heading slowly towards the security controls. He meant to leave immediately, packing only essentials.  
  
Suddenly, there was the noise again, nearer this time. Otacon longed for the light switch at the far side of the apartment. After a few seconds of silence and rigid stillness on his part Otacon headed towards the door, wondering what he was going to do when he left the apartment complex in nothing but his pyjamas and a badly concealed M-9. He would have to hide somewhere until it was safe to return. He pictured himself huddled in a bus shelter with a can of baked beans, asking passers by for a quarter to use the nearby phone booth and headed towards the apartment door.  
  
He never reached it. In an instant, a strong hand closed around his mouth and another turned him with expert silence to the ground. His back met the unforgiving wooden floorboards with a muffled thud, and the hand again stifled his cry. For what seemed like a minute Otacon was held there in absolute silence by the smothered figure before the rattling sound began again. It was coming from the man's chest or midsection. Otacon looked up at the attacker's face as he looked down at his. The light from the computer monitor provided nothing more than a silhouette of the man's head.  
  
"We are safe for now," the man growled in a voice that Otacon recognised immediately. His eyes closed with relief, as for the third time that night he was reminded of his friend.  
  
"Snake?"  
  
Although it sounded as though Snake had been on a diet of rusty nails for a week, there was no doubting from a half awake Otacon the voice's origin. There was no reply for the longest time. The rattling stopped again, and Otacon got the impression that the man was listening for something. Otacon strained his ears, but only silence met them.  
  
"No." Came the eventual reply. The man released a confused Otacon and stood firmly upright. "I am VII." He pronounced it "seven", but something about the respect he gave the name made Otacon imagine it in Roman Numerals. He tried to squint through the darkness at VII, but saw only a black outline of a chiselled body.  
  
"You have to leave here. They are coming for you."  
  
"How did They find me?" Otacon asked in his head, and then iterated.  
  
"By following me." VII replied. Before Otacon could ask how he'd found him, something whistled between them and smashed into the far wall. VII pushed Otacon easily to the ground and snatched the berretta up from the floor. Otacon covered his head as VII ran to the maggot-framed and recently smashed window to scope for the sniper. The moonlight cast a shadow across VII's body, but his back was turned to Otacon. His long, ragged hair covered his shoulders and muscles shaped the tight fabric he wore. He seemed unarmed.  
  
"Go!" VII commanded without turning around. "Run to a friend's house. I can follow."  
  
Otacon didn't argue. He crawled into the bedroom and slid a pair of jeans on. He banked that his wallet would still be in the back pocket. As further shots broke the window and threw glass across the apartment floor, Hal Emmerich left the place that had been his home for five years, never to return.  
  
The door closed with an echoing slam. He heard other patrons beginning to stir in their respective rooms. He ran across the corridor towards the stairs, keeping his head as low as possible. As he passed a badly watered plant, the vase holding it exploded an instant after the window behind it had shattered. VII's deterrent doesn't seem to be helping much, Otacon thought, as his bare feet crunched over broken glass shards. Otacon was being hunted, perhaps by more than one sharpshooter.  
  
He practically flew down the staircase, covering his head with his hands and flinching when soft "thips" announced the arrivals of more plaster- breaking sniper bullets. The stairs came to an end, and he ran blind down the final few. The entrance in sight, Otacon ran right into someone. It barely registered to Otacon when a bullet exploded out the side of the man's head, adding another colour to his once white vest. He didn't look up, but felt warm liquid spray across his face as the man dropped to the floor. He took a deep breath, and ran out the front door of the rundown complex.  
  
A police siren split the moist air as Otacon stepped onto the street. Half expecting his life to end, he ran across the empty backstreet. This might've been a highly trained Patriot sniper, but there was no way he was just going to stand still under a neon light for the bastard. He stood with baited breath under the bus shelter that faced his apartment, waiting for further fire.  
  
None came. Confused, he almost stepped out of his urine-soaked haven before remembering what someone he cared very much about had told him long ago, mere days before she died in the barrel of a sniper scope. The best sharpshooters could wait as long as weeks for their prey to emerge.  
  
For some sort of sign from VII, he cast his eyes up towards his apartment's window. He was shocked when he saw the figure of his new ally standing bolt upright, their enemy apparently vanquished. He glanced down at Otacon (his face still an enigma) for a second, before swiftly retreating back into the darkness behind the window frame.  
  
He'd lost yet another home, his friend was still missing, and he was on the run again. Refusing to dwell on this, Otacon began to move in the direction of the place he knew he must go to first. With a bit of luck, he'd reach it before sunrise.  
  
Subterranean transport was out of the question, Otacon thought as he turned a street corner. He couldn't risk passing the police and security guards that are standard in train stations. Busses were out too: even if one was available at this time of night there would be too great a chance of someone recognising him. Walking through the streets would be suicide with all the bounty hunters that were hanging around. A taxi was his best option.  
  
He spotted a phone booth across the street. Holding the receiver with his head and right shoulder, he reached into his back pocket and was relieved to find his wallet still there. He put a quarter into the machine with one hand, and picked up the tattered phonebook that hung from the door with another.  
  
Still shaking, it took him ten minutes to find a taxi service number and a further thirty seconds to dial it.  
  
"Liberty Cabs," hawked the woman on the other end of the line with something that Snake had once described as a "New Yawk" accent. Otacon muttered his location and destination. He had to repeat himself when the woman told him to speak up.  
  
"We'll have one with ya in twenty minutes," she cawed eventually. "So long." It took half an hour for the cab to arrive. Otacon looked up in the sky in exasperation.  
  
"Queens," Otacon told the driver. He just hoped Jack hadn't moved house without telling him.  
  
VII stood alone in the dark room, the gun still warm in his hand. He reflected once again on his mission objectives, which pointed in his mind towards a single goal. He allowed the weapon to slip from his gloved hand, knowing that the tape around the grip would prevent any forensics team from obtaining Otacon's fingerprints.  
  
He stepped towards the unhelpful light and nervous stuttering of Otacon's workstation. The monitor read "Download Complete." VII reached around it and gripped the back of it with his powerful fingers. Air rattled into his lungs, and in another instant he had ripped the screen from the desk it had been nailed to. Sparks flew across the floorboards as VII crushed the computer tower's protective casing in a destructive embrace. Sharp pains ran up his forearms, but he had got passed the point where electricity could do him harm.  
  
Satisfied that all techno-evidence had been destroyed, he retrieved from the kitchen a box of matches. A few minutes later, and he could feel the blaze warming his skin even through his improvised mask. He'd be long gone by the time the NYPD's best response time was up, determined not to lose a vital piece of his master plan. But for now he watched to make sure the fire spread.  
  
He spared a brief moment to think about what his other must be going through at this moment, only to find that he didn't care. Rescue was no longer his objective. Nevertheless, he did have a goal. Before that goal was to be achieved, trust must be earned. People must be lied to. And a dozen men must die.  
  
Revenge is a great motivator.  
  
--  
  
Author's note: Sorry I haven't posted in a while, GSCE's have been taking up most of my life recently. This chapter is a bit shorter than the last, but I hope you can forgive me owing that it had more action in it. I'll try to update A.S.A.P.  
  
So, what do you think of VII? Got any theories regarding his origins, or this goal he can't seem to stop thinking about? And what about the announcement of Raiden! Can he be trusted? Write a review and reveal your opinions!  
  
I'd like to dedicate this chapter to my great uncle, who is in hospital this week, battling against lung cancer. My families' prayers are with him.  
  
Also, a good luck goes out to all those who are doing exams at the moment. They're tough, but worth passing in the long run. And remember, there's no such thing as an easy exam.  
  
If you're looking for a good accompaniment to this story, I'd recommend A Fox's Last Hunt by Prey Mantis. I did overlook the project, but calling me co-writer is a little flattering. Still, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did as it slots very handily into the history behind one of the key characters in Legacy of Blood.  
  
See ya in the funny pages. 


	9. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

Jack Andrews, unemployed, sat facing a blank television screen. For hardly the first time recently, he was bored stiff. Rose had gone out for that last item she always needed from the late store. He would've gone for her, just to pass the time, but she still remembered the occasion when it had taken him ten minutes to realise that vegetarian beans were in the heath food section. Ten minutes of our life together, she'd said.

For the twentieth time in succession Jack allowed his eyes to follow the twisting wire that led from the television screen, around the back of the sofa and into a mess of tangled stereo wiring that was too ancient to be anything more than an heirloom from Rose's dad. The television cable did not lead into the wall socket, but rather dangled precariously from yet another extension cord. He would've followed one of the other wires, had their paths not all been obstructed by the cardboard boxes that littered his apartment. As soon as tomorrow the moving van would be here and he'd have to make the labourers a cup of coffee out of whatever the hell he hadn't packed into a cardboard box and perhaps even socialise with them. Despite this disturbing thought, Jack could still not think of a better way to pass the time than laying prone on his fiancée's couch gazing at a black TV screen. He had enough to think about without actually moving.

In fact, he was having second thoughts. Not only about the move; that Rose had bullied him into to save money leading to only fifty second thoughts up until now. Arguing with her was useless: she seemed to know exactly what he'd say next, even when he argued that it was his apartment and there had been no point in her moving in if they were just going to "get a place of their own" a few weeks later. There was nothing he could do now to stop the move to Queens, forces had spiralled beyond his control the second she'd picked up the local paper and turned to the ads section. No, the real thing that was being disputed in his mind was the marriage.

Although they hadn't set a date, it still seemed to loom over him like a wedding ring of Damocles. It was true that he'd proposed to her, but he began to think more and more that he did it only because... actually, he didn't know why he did it. He mulled it over once again in his mind: her, walking gingerly towards him on a New York high street. Her, looking slightly disproportioned owing to the growth in her stomach; slight, but recognisable. Snake, withdrawing respectfully as a cold chill ran down the length of Jack's spine. It all lead up to him opening his stupid mouth and letting a proposal stream from between his stupid lips, condemning him instantly to the domestic hell that bore no excitement or foolhardy heroism and had little time or money for romantic gestures from either party. The more he thought about it, the more he questioned his true feelings for her.

Jack ran his fingers through his short, blonde hair that still smelled strongly of barbicide almost a week after he'd had it cut. Was it love that forced him into this, or guilt? It was true that Rosemary made him feel more alive, more purposeful than anyone else on this earth. Even the thought of saving the world that streaked through his mind often in VR training never brought about as much pride or purpose than the time he spent alone with Rose. However, he had felt insurmountable guilt when he saw her, pregnant and still bearing the bruises that marked their argument.

He concluded that he did love her, however much. However, even that was artificial. For the first time in a month he willingly allowed the events of the Big Shell to enter his consciousness, and thought about the revelations that came with it. He'd been controlled by an unseen force like a rat through a maze; everything from his actions to his emotions had been meticulously predicted by the Patriots. Philanthropy had unofficially offered him a job to prevent it happening again, which he'd turned down, saying that he wanted to devote to his wife and child and wanted no further part in covert missions. The smile that ran across Otacon's face suggested to him that he expected him to join eventually (perhaps Snake had said the same thing once), and it was the expectation that Jack resented, as it reminded him that someone out there could read him like an open book.

At that moment Jack realised that at the same time as he was disputing his love for Rose he was also trying to figure out his feelings for the Patriots. He'd never been a political follower and therefore had little to weigh the Patriotic regime against. Sure, he knew what the definition of democracy was, but what if that too had been invented by these twelve wise men? In that case, then the invisible dictatorship under which America lay was undisputable, and he could see no other alternative. No sanely-perceived persons had complained strongly against the "democratic" system the Patriots had set up, meaning that the way they ran the country must be working.

At the same time however, Jack could not bring himself to forgive them. He had always detested the thought of being "just another soldier," and had always refused mental images of his body lying in an unmarked grave in a military cemetery somewhere in Washington. He'd discredited the existence of God at a very young age, not because of the evidence against it but due to his burning desire to be in control of his own life (one George Sears had hypothesized at the time that this was an unwelcome side effect of temporary brainwashing, and was more careful with his procedures in the future). Jack wanted to make the choices and decisions, and had never stopped preparing himself for the responsibilities that came with them. Therefore, he saw the Patriots as a force that had robbed him of this free will but neglected to spare another thought for the millions still under their control. He hated them with a passion.

How, then, could he love Rose? He remembered what he'd learned: Rose was no more than an actress, given all sorts of surgery to become the girl of whatever his nanomachines deciphered as his dreams by none other than the La-Li-Lu-Le-Lo. Admittedly, he believed her when she told him she had genuinely fallen for him. But how could he truthfully love her, heart and soul, knowing what she was?

The truth hit him like one of the many tanks that patrolled his dreams. He'd figured it out. The Patriots still controlled him, through Rose. Maybe she didn't know it, but as long as he lived with her and felt things for her and had sex with her they still controlled him. The bastards had probably even vacated Jack and Rose's new house for them so they could keep a better eye on him. One thing was for sure: he was now free of their control. He saw Rosemary as nothing more than his opposition manifested. In the briefest of seconds, everything Jack Andrews felt for his fiancée was lost in a swirling vortex of hate that he neither liked nor understood. He stood up to the mirror on the wall and stared between the frame that they'd chosen together as every moment the couple had shared was rendered meaningless. He saw the hair that she'd wanted him to cut and the silver stud in the lobe of his ear that she thought looked great on him. His vision was clouded with red fury for the briefest of seconds until he realised that he needed a plan of action.

In no time at all, she would be home. What could he do to be rid of the shell that encapsulated him? He must end their relationship. The engagement would come to an end that very night. But that wasn't enough for Jack. He needed to see her suffer for what she'd done to him. She'd taken away his very life with her false hair and deceptive implants and a pledge to those who would have him die alone on a battlefield. Even if she wasn't aware of the Patriots, in Jack's mind she represented everything about them and he would make her an example to them.

Jack realised what he must do. If his strings were to be cut down and if he were to become more than just a marionette that danced for a dark hand then Rose must no longer exist. Rose must die. And she must die by his hand.

The doorbell buzzed loudly. That would be her. It startled Jack that he must carry out this plan so soon after conceiving it. He grabbed the mirror by both sides of the golden frame and brought it smashing down into the apartment floor. The buzzing could be heard once more from the front door, clouding the smashing sound of the glass. His heartbeat raced as he reflected on how quickly he had realised the truth, a different situation to that he'd been in on the Big Shell. He snatched from the floor with almost mechanical movement a shard of reflective glass about a foot in length, slicing the side of his left hand open. He hardly noticed. Concealing it low behind his thigh, he walked swiftly to the front door of the apartment.

Rose gave up holding her shopping and placed it as gently as possible on the corridors floor so as not to break the bottle of Champagne she'd purchased for tomorrow night. It was the cheapest bottle in the shop, but would nevertheless suffice for their housewarming celebration. She'd probably get an earful from Jack for spending too much and smiled to herself when she pictured the disbelieving look on his face hours earlier when she told him she was going back to the store for "one more thing." She rang the doorbell again and heard its unpleasant buzz for the third time, imagining the hug that she'd receive when the door was finally opened. That would be well worth the wait, she concluded, as she looked down at the signature lump of her future child.

A few seconds and lock clicks later, and the door opened. A smiling face greeted her, that of her mother. Pleasantries exchanged briefly, an expected embrace, and she stepped inside. Jack could wait a bit longer.

Jack opened the door to his apartment slowly, and a bespectacled and distressed face greeted him. Jack was surprised, and almost dropped the glass shard. He winced as the serrated edge cut further into his hand.

"Otacon?" Jack was full of questions once more. This was totally unexpected. He unhooked the chain that held the door ajar and opened his apartment to the entire corridor.

"Jack," Otacon wheezed. There was a short silence as both men took each other in. Jack felt eyes moving over his hair. Otacon was different too, his hair was longer and matted and a straggly beard stroked across his chin. His shirt was open, exposing his bare chest. He wasn't wearing any shoes either. All in all, Jack wondered how Otacon had got across town without being arrested.

"Can I come in?" Otacon asked. He was almost bent over with exhaustion.

"Sure," Jack said eventually. He stepped out of Otacon's way, taking care to keep the glass out of site. He didn't need this: another conspiracy theory or stray Metal Gear. Jack hated the Patriots, but he was starting to hate Otacon. He wasn't a soldier any more.

Jack watched Otacon walk towards the sofa but, evidently remembering his manners, he refrained from sitting on it. Jack gestured to the couch with his right, and his visitor sat. There was more silence.

"You want a coffee?" Jack asked, as politely as he could manage. Otacon's eyes moved quickly from the broken mirror to Jack's eyes.

"Thanks, that'd be great."

Jack walked towards the kitchen, thinking where he'd left the Nescafe. Rose's Montreal stuff had been packed away last week. "Damn clumsy moving guys," he smiled as he passed the shattered pieces of glass.

"You're moving house?" Otacon stated the obvious. "They haven't taken much yet, have they?"

"Like I said," Jack replied, finding the coffee in the highest cupboard. "Clumsy." He set the shard of glass down on the kitchen surface. "How do you take it?" he asked.

"What? Oh... Black, no sugar."

Great, 'cos we haven't anything else, Jack thought. Hopefully he could get Otacon out of here as quickly as possible before Rose got back. Or he'd kill them both, but that would be more difficult.

"I'll come right out with it," Otacon brought himself to speak. Here it comes... "Snake's been kidnapped. There are Patriot snipers after me, too. But don't worry, I made sure I wasn't followed."

Great. Just what Jack needed. "What do you want me to do? I told you, I'm not a soldier any more." He took two mugs back into the living room and handed one to Otacon. As soon as he did so he wished he hadn't bothered.

"You're bleeding," Otacon said as he was handed the soaked mug.

"Yeah," Jack said quickly, recoiling slightly. "I..." Before he could finish, the doorbell buzzed again. Jack almost dropped his coffee, and stood motionless for a few seconds. "I'll get it," he said at last, and moved towards the door.

Otacon was becoming very afraid. There was blood on Jack's hands, Rose was nowhere to be seen, and there was a smashed mirror. Could the Patriots control run deeper than he'd thought? Snake was right: they should've removed his nanos. Through them, the La-Li-Lu-Le-Lo could still control Jack. What if they wanted him to kill Rose? Although usually dormant, the nanomachines could potentially influence Raiden's actions within minutes of a code being typed in, and he'd believe what he was doing was right. Coming here had been like walking into the lion's den.

Jack reached the door and pulled it open as far as the chain would allow to reveal Rose's smiling face. He was annoyed to find himself without his improvised weapon. He smiled weirdly back, and opened the door fully. As usual, she was weighted down with shopping funded by Jack's own pocket.

"Hiya," she greeted him. "Sorry I'm so late, I stopped to see mom." He nodded in reply.

"We've got company," he told her as she stepped inside. "Rose, this is..." he stopped as he turned towards the sofa. Otacon had gone.

"...Otacon," he continued. He searched his mind to think where Otacon could have gone. He must have figured out Jack's intentions. "He must be using the bathroom," he told her.

"Yeah. Anyway, you won't believe some of the offers they have down there. I know, I know, we're trying to save money, but..." Rose's voice trailed off in Jack's mind as she lifted her bags into the kitchen as another voice entered it.

_Kill her now._

Jack didn't know whether it was his own voice, or his conscious, or whatever, but it was almost irresistible. He found himself moving towards her, focused on her neck. He tried to stop; to think again of the reasons he loved her. He wanted the security of a second thought. But the voice would not allow it.

_Kill her. It's what you want._

Jack found that it was what he wanted. Doubt no longer clouded his mind. He would be free of the control. He moved closer towards her, her back still turned to him. He could almost smell her long, hazel hair. He reached forward, preparing to share with her their last embrace. His left hand closed around the top of her head, his right arm went across her throat.

She screamed. He hesitated.

"Jack!"

Otacon had returned. He was holding a gun, a berretta, at point blank range to Jack's head. The voice shouted in his head, louder than ever. Kill them both, it told him. Rose was beginning to cry; Jack's blood was running down her forehead.

"Let her go, Jack." Otacon told him softly. He knew it was almost useless reasoning with Jack, but he had to try. "You don't want to do this."

Jack had thought that he did, but was beginning to doubt it. The voice started to shout in his mind. There was something familiar about it, but Jack couldn't place it. Nor could he resist it.

"Let her go." Otacon repeated himself, more assertively than before. He would kill Jack before he allowed him to succumb to the Patriot's influence, he told himself. He didn't believe it, and he was sure that Jack didn't either. He watched Jack's grip tighten on his lover's head and neck, his eyes still firmly fixed on the barrel of Otacon's weapon. He would have to shoot him to stop him. His finger clenched the trigger firmly, but no more. He couldn't bring himself to end Jack's life and Rose's love. Very slowly, he moved the focus of his gun down towards Jack's exposed shoulder, prayed that Snake wasn't wasting his time paying out for the shooting range, and fired.

Jack felt the cold metal bullet piece his skin and tear through his shoulder blade like tissue paper. He released his grip on Rose ever so slightly. She screamed, twisted in his grip and forced her knee into his groin. He cried, and with mechanical movement reached for the shard of glass that still lay on the draining board. Another bullet flew past him, smashing the kitchen tile. Jack swung his body round with fluid motion and launched the jagged shard through the air towards Otacon. He tried to duck, but it caught him and stuck fast beneath his outstretched right arm, shattering on impact. Small pieces of mirror flew outwards, slashing Otacon's face. Only his glasses prevented the shards from reaching his soft eyeballs. He dropped his gun and fell to the floor, gripping his arm in pain. Rose was screaming.

Jack watched her run to Otacon, and then look up at Jack with bewilderment showing behind her shining teardrops. He moved slowly out of the kitchen area and walked towards where Otacon lay. He picked the fallen gun from beside Rose, who was too frightened to do anything but watch. With an eerie grace, Jack lifted the gun to meet her head. Blood dripped from his hand onto her knee and his shirt was matted with the life fluid pouring from his shoulder. He squeezed the trigger, and a berretta's fire filled the room once more.

But it had not come from his gun. A bullet smashed into the berretta, causing it to fly from his hand. He turned to the open window, and saw an armed man step through it. He wore a black, featureless mask that was tied tight behind his untamed mullet by thick, partially concealed leather straps. Other than that, his build and stance reminded Raiden of Snake; except not even Snake was that muscular. There was a noise coming from his throat, like rusty nails being tossed around in a tin can.

"VII," Otacon spoke. Rose stared, more confused and upset than ever. Jack watched the mysterious figure step closer. The voice was now screaming in Jack's head as he found himself for the second time that night at the mercy of a gun. In a split instant, Jack dived to his left and cart wheeled over his injured shoulder. VII fired, and missed. Jack dived again with catlike agility and his hand closed over the first gun that had flown from his hand seconds ago. Finding himself behind the sofa, he cocked the gun and reached over his cover, aiming at where VII had stood just moments before.

He had gone. Cautiously, Jack stepped out from behind his improvised cover, scouting for his attacker.

_Forget him,_ the voice screamed. _Kill her._

But Jack knew his job too well. He traced over to the open window and looked slowly out. If he had gone that way, he'd be street pizza by now. The silky curtains moved passed his head, stroking his face. He began to rise, and turned.

Too late. An iron fist grabbed his gun arm tight and twisted it round, forcing him to drop the berretta. Jack found himself heading over his own head and felt the floor smash hard into his back and head. VII crouched over him, still in motion and holding Jack's arm. Jack kicked upwards, and his foot found the side of VII's masked head. VII released his arm and stepped backwards due to the force of the kick. Jack threw his other leg upwards before flinging them both outwards from his body. His shoulders lifted from the floor and his feet made base contact on the ground in a picture perfect nip up. He was baying for his assaulter's blood. He leaped from his crouched position towards the staggered posture of VII, consumed in a furious rage.

VII saw it coming. This would be a good death, he thought to himself. But he wasn't about to die at this early stage of his plan at the hands of this young rookie, no matter how possessed or talented he was. And he certainly wasn't about to allow his prime assets against the Wisemen fall. Not good enough, he thought again. He reached out, and caught Jack's arms in mid air. He turned the attack into a defensive judo counter, once again sending Jack over his own head and into the floor. After watching Jack expectedly sit up, he gripped his potential murderer by his lower neck in a well learned nerve grab before stepping back as Jack fell unconscious.

Only the far off sirens and cries of distant traffic disturbed the quiet that hung ghostlike in the surrounding air as VII stood triumphant over his vanquished adversary. Otacon finally broke the near silence.

"What now?" he winced. VII turned and looked at him.

"First, we bandage you up," he answered. "You've a piece of glass shoved into a major artery in your arm, but going to the hospital is out of the question. We'll have to make do with what we have here." VII turned to Rose, who was crumpled by Otacon in a state of silent shock. "Do you have a first aid kit here?" It took her a while to answer.

"I... it's been packed away. In that box." She gestured to a cardboard box in the corner of the living room."

"Good." VII walked quickly to it and ripped it open. After a few seconds of rummaging, he found a green, zipped up bag and brought it back to where Otacon lay. "Hold your arm up," he growled in his usual rattling tone. Otacon did what he was told. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was VII withdrawing what looked like steel wire strippers from the bag. After a few seconds, the numbing pain under his arm increased slightly. He heard Rose whimper.

When he finally opened his eyes, his right arm was bandaged tight with surgical tape and held in a sling across his chest. VII was standing over him, his ominous and expressionless mask setting the mood.

"Who are you?" Rose got up the courage to ask. Otacon turned towards her, rather startled, and held out his left hand.

"I'm Hal Emmerich, but my friends call me..."

"I'm VII," the masked man interrupted, "and this is Otacon, what's left of a fringe government organisation called Philanthropy dedicated to the obliteration of a walking battle tank called..."

"Metal Gear," Rose interjected. "I saw them on the news. Where's Solid Snake? Why did my boyfr... my fiancée just try to kill me?" She started to sob again.

"That's what I want to know," replied Otacon, struggling to rise. "And I think you've got the answers," he said, turning to VII. "Just what is it that you want?"

"Jack "Raiden" Andrews is under the influence of Patriot nanomachines that reside in his bloodstream," VII growled. "He knew what he was doing, but the nanos are too powerful. They can make someone believe what they are doing is right, even if it's killing a loved one. I have no doubt that even now Jack is fighting their commands."

"How do you know this?" Otacon demanded. He was more confused than ever.

"Because you're both still alive." VII's answer was cold. "I want what you want: the eradication of Metal Gear and the liquidisation of the Patriots. For this, I need several things. You, Raiden, and two others."

"Solid Snake," Otacon figured, and without fully knowing why, said: "And Liquid Snake."

"Exactly."

"Wait," Rose sobbed. Despite the unnerving sounds that scratched in VII's throat when he spoke, he was beginning to understand her husband to be more than ever by his words. However, she needed to be a part of this. "What's going to happen to Jack?" She tried to dry her eyes. Otacon had managed to rise fully, and stepped over to help her up. She ignored his hand, and used the coffee table to stand. His tramp-like appearance unnerved her slightly.

"At this very moment Raiden's nanomachines are attempting to awaken him," VII began to explain. When she looked at him, fear flashed irregularly across her reddened face. She found his presence both reassuring and disturbing. "When he does awaken," VII continued. "He will do so to find himself bound and gagged until I can find a way to eliminate his nanomachines. Then, I will need his cooperation on a mission I have planned against those who would see him and you dead."

"The Patriots," she replied. If there were one thing in her life she could change, it would be working for them.

"Yes. You both know too much for their liking. That is why they sicked you on each other tonight. Once Jack had killed you, they would have commanded him to commit suicide." Rose fought back tears once more.

"What's this mission you talked about?" Otacon asked of VII.

"As I said before, I need the help of Solid Snake on this mission," VII responded. "In order to do that, I need to rescue him."

"You know where he is!?" Otacon was shocked.

"I am surprised you don't," VII answered. "Just days ago your computer terminal traced a file back to his current whereabouts. I had assumed that you had found him."

"That military base, in the Nevada desert..."

"Yes. Area 51." VII knowledge astounded Otacon. It seemed as though he had tapped Otacon's computer and plenty more besides. This was one hell of an organisation they had now. But there was more he needed to find out by going to Area 51. He'd promised Mei Ling that he'd help her, and by God he'd find "CF" and beat what he knew out of him if he had to.

"Just how do you know where Snake is?" Otacon asked. "I thought that would have been one of the Patriot's biggest secrets."

"Because," VII hesitated, and sighed behind his mask. "I was held captive there myself." There was more silence, like the quiet sigh of three people taking everything in. "I must warn you, Area 51 is not what you'd think. It is a different place to different people."

"We need to know everything you know about it," Otacon said, looking at Rose.

"I'll explain on the way there."

"Wait," Rose said again. "Why do you need me?"

"Although Raiden has performed spectacularly in VR missions, rising to the level of Snake himself, his most notable accomplishment was the successful completion of his mission on the Big Shell." VII revealed. "During that mission, he was corresponding frequently with a computer program that he believed to be his partner, Rose." He allowed a moment for his words to sink in, before continuing: "I'll need maximum performance from him if this rescue operation is to succeed."

"You mentioned Liquid," Otacon spoke up. "How does he fit into all this?"

"Liquid Snake thinks he knows the whereabouts of the Patriots," VII began to speak. "In fact, he knows the location of this "Area 51" base, which was the location given to Revolver Ocelot. I predict he will strike soon, and he will provide the perfect distraction for us."

"What? You mean... he hasn't attacked already?"

"No. I believe this is because he and Ocelot have been battling for supremacy over their shared body. Although strong, Ocelot's will is no match for Liquid's sheer determination. Nevertheless, this resistance has prevented Liquid from acting thus far. When he does attack, it will be with a force even greater than ours."

"How come?" Otacon questioned. "We'll have you, Snake, Jack... he'll just have one RAY unit."

"It is my understanding that he intends to make contact with the superhuman entity known as Vamp," he continued. "Bearing in mind Vamp's grudge against the Patriots, I doubt he'll refuse."

Otacon clenched his fists with rage. He'd thought Vamp dead, slain by Raiden during the Big Shell mission. Now he had another reason to go to Area 51: revenge for his sister's death.

VII watched from behind his mask as Otacon's face turned with anger, and allowed himself a smile. There was no way now that Otacon would refuse. As he knew through experience, revenge is a great motivator. He heard the sound of Raiden stirring.

Rose strained her brain as best she could for something to say. Pregnant or not, she'd made up her mind to go on this mission: anything to keep Jack alive. She looked down at the broken frame across the room and the glass that blanketed their apartment. She was glad that her and Jack had decided against taking the carpets when they moved. Suddenly, she again became aware of the blood that had begun to dry on her face and mopped at her forehead with her hand.

"Now," VII spoke once more. "We need to get these nanos out of our operative."

"I'm calling Mei Ling in on this," Otacon sighed. "May I use your phone?" He inquired of Rose.

"It's tapped," VII said. "Use mine." He handed Otacon a small cell phone. Otacon headed towards the bathroom where he'd hidden before to use it. VII began to pull yards of surgical tape out of the first aid kit to restrain Jack. Rose stood, frozen, before opening her mouth to ask one more question.

"Anyone for coffee?"

* * *

**Author's Note:** ... And breathe out! The longest chapter yet by far, and it almost killed me. I hope you're happy people!

Once again I'd just like to thank everyone who's taken the time to review me so far. Your support is appreciated greatly, and I couldn't have got this far without you. As usual, give me your opinions on the direction of the story. I'd just like to take a moment to respond to a few of them...

**Pablo:**- Right on all accounts.

**Ginger Ninja:**- Thanks again! VII's past will come into perspective eventually. I have finished GCSE's now. I hope your A Levels go really well. Good luck!

**ChristSaviour:**- Hmm... Nah.

**Akaisakura:**-Thanks! I think I've passed English at least lol. With Liquid on his way in, who knows what kind of genetic experiments could develop. I know, it does seem a bit strange that Ling would be so interested in a 12 year old but bear with me and I'll unveil the shocking reason why...

Don't forget to check my biography for update information, exciting stories from my life, and my self-centred opinions on more or less everything.

If I don't update in the next few weeks, take care of yourselves and have a great summer holiday.


	10. Chapter Nine

**

* * *

Chapter Nine**

"Miss? Miss?"

Mei Ling awoke from her half slumber and for the first time became aware of her fellow traveller, withdrawing her head from the shuddering train window. As dignified as she could manage, she wiped the skin between her right eye and her nose for moisture and squinted at her addresser. She knew not how long he'd been trying to wake her.

"Pardon me, miss, but it ain't safe to sleep on these trains," the man explained. He was an incredibly thin man of medium height, his relatively pleasant face by comparison carrying the wrinkles of decades. Grey hair tufted on his jaw, making him appear older than he actually was. "I'd try to stay awake until your home safe if I were you."

Whether or not it was her imagination the eyes of a large, burly man in the corner of the carriage seemed to rise to her when the old man spoke, before returning to his window. On this evidence, she decided to take her recent acquaintance's advice. Somewhere in the carriage, a baby began to cry.

"Thank you," Mei answered. The wrinkles on his face rounded into a smile.

"I'm Frank," she was surprised to hear him say. Having only arrived in New York yesterday for the first time in years she was certainly not fully up to date with their habits but had never undergone introductions on the underground before.

"Amanda Lei," she lied. She really couldn't trust anyone with her real name.

"Pleasure to meet ya," Frank concluded. "Do you live in Queens?" He asked, startling her before she realised where she was going.

"No," she answered. She recalled Otacon's instructions. "Visiting relatives."

"Glad to hear it," he said. "You make the most of family while you still got it. Me, I spent too much of my youth on a motorbike or behind bars." She didn't know whether to laugh or not at his joke, and produced a strange sort of grin. She felt really stupid, but then he smiled again to put her at ease.

"After you've been in jail, freedom means a lot more to ya than it used to," he went on. "Nowadays, it's all I have."

The last few days had been a strange mixed bag for Mei Ling. To start it all off, she had been woken in the middle of the night by a phone call from Otacon, telling her to make her way to New York immediately. Ever since she'd been following his instructions and little else: packing light, taking the train rather than flying, lying about who she was and where she was going... it would have been little surprise to anyone who had a summary of her last couple of nights to know that being woken yet again was less than welcome to her. However, she now appreciated this Frank's concern, and his company was the first she'd had since taking sick leave from her computer-programming job back in Washington. Her resolve to help bring an end to the Patriots was now stronger than ever following the man's words. Most of all, she needed to find her father, but the Twelve were fast moving up her list of priorities.

"You're unemployed?" she regretted her prying words almost as soon as she'd let them out. "I'm sorry," she said when no answer came.

"No worries, Miss," he replied with his custom grin. "In fact, I'm on my way to an interview now." She knew that he was joking this time. His shabby clothes marked him as a drifter.

They continued talking for a while, Frank telling her about his past job and Mei informing him about hers. He congratulated her on such an interesting occupation, and Mei offered condolence about his firing from the steelworks. The more the conversation went on, the more Mei saw how many decent people struggled through life and how little the battles she'd influenced with her technology mattered. Frank must've been one of millions who would lead the same life regardless of who was in charge of the country. But at least, she thought, they could bring him and others real freedom when this was all over.

"Are you Japanese?" he inquired, to break a period of silence.

"Chinese," she answered. "Well, I was born in America, but my mother's from China."

"I getcha," he acknowledged. "I'm born and bred US citizen," the drifter told her. "I've been abroad before, but never as far as Asia. I think one of my aunts on my mother's side married a Frenchman, but that's about it." He chuckled to himself, showing a row of cracked teeth.

"Where is it that you went?" she asked. "When you went abroad, I mean."

"'Nam," she found out. "You're talking to the last survivor of General George "Custer" Jones' world renowned suicide squad." It shocked her a little to discover that he was a soldier. "Never did find out why he was called "Custer"," he shook his head as he spoke. She let out a small giggle.

"How long were you there for?" she asked him.

"Three months," he answered. "And I've got the shrapnel wound in my leg to show for it. Haven't quite been the athlete I was since." She laughed again. "Old Custer sent me back home after I caught malaria. Didn't want to, like, but doctors orders are doctors orders, even if he was a prat."

"I'm glad you got out alive," she said. "A lot of people didn't."

"Sometimes I wish that I hadn't," the old man replied. "I left the best friends I ever had in that jungle."

Again, Mei noted how an honest man like this had been hurt by the Patriots. Whether that particular war was just or not, it had been their idea, as had every war the US had been involved in since. She continually saw why Otacon was trying to bring an end to them.

"Almost there," he said as the train thundered past more steely darkness. She let out a small yawn in agreement. "I'm sorry again about wakin' ya before, Miss Lei," the traveller told her in response. "I just noticed your briefcase. It's another target for those who live around here, though they got darker ones too."

"Don't mention it," she replied. "I'm grateful. All it is is a few personals..." She didn't like lying to Frank, but she didn't have much of a choice. Anyone could be listening in, and she didn't really want to be talking about nanotechnology to anyone who didn't need to know about it.

"But ya wouldn't be without 'em," he finished her sentence for her. She smiled and nodded.

The train began to slow down. "Well, end of the line Miss," he sighed, and they both began to stand. "Listen, I've got nothin' to do for a few hours. I'll walk you to wherever you're going if you'd like."

Before she could answer, the train came to a jolting stop, throwing both Frank and Mei back into their seats. She glanced out of the window, and saw that they were far short of the station. A yellow "caution" sign was the last thing she saw before the lights in the tunnel went out, swiftly followed by those on the train. Alarmed voices ran panicking through the entire carriage as words like "power cut" and "terrorists" were thrown around like confetti. Her eyes began to grow accustomed to the dark, and she made out Frank's outline.

"We've got to get out of here," she whispered to him as she realised the cause. "This isn't an ordinary power cut. Trust me."

"That may be true, Miss," he answered. "But we can't start a panic by breaking a window open."

Mei Ling again got up from her seat, leaving her briefcase with Frank, and felt her way past people to the front of the carriage. She found what she was looking for: the emergency box. She pried it open, breaking a fingernail painfully in the process, and pulled from it a long cylindrical object. Before she could snap it open and light the flare, she felt herself being knocked to the ground by a sudden stampede of people. Mei kept tight hold of the flare as she retreated under a nearby seat to avoid being trampled on. Screams were coming from the back end, and people were banging at the doors. She heard a window nearby shatter and for the first time began to fear for her life.

"Miss Lei?" She turned at the sound of someone addressing her. It was Frank, although she couldn't see him in the dark. She felt his hand grab her arm and drag her out from the seat with a strength that belied his thin stature. "Come on." Her fast-adapting eyes allowed her to see him kick a Plexiglas window right through. The musty odours of the tunnel seeped into her nostrils.

"We're going to have to jump," he told her. "I'll go first." He sat on the window frame where the plastic glass had stood before and swung his denim-clad legs round to the outside of the train before sliding off to the deactivated track below. He landed with a small thud, but picked himself up quickly, not once dropping her suitcase.

"Now you," he shouted through the screams that threatened to engulf them both. An elbow slammed hard into her back, pushing her out of the window. She grabbed at the ledge, but the pain running through her index finger was too great. She left her heart in her mouth as her hand slipped, and she fell from the window towards the rigid tracks below.

"Oomph," her body slammed hard into Frank's chest as he did his best to cushion her fall. He fell backwards onto the gravel, almost chuckling to himself. "You OK, Miss?" he asked.

"Fine," she called over the noise. "What now -"

Her voice trailed away as the commotion on the train was brought to an abrupt silence at the sound of a gunshot. The quiet lasted a few mere seconds before the screams started again, even louder than their predecessors. Mei Ling looked back down the tunnel down which the train had travelled and saw flashlights cutting through the pitch-blackness.

"Shit," she swore, and got to her feet as fast as she could. "We have to run," she told Frank and helped him to his feet.

"Much obliged, Miss," the drifter replied, picking her suitcase up from the ground. "I'll carry this for you."

There was no time to argue, and Mei began to run over the gravel towards the station, knowing her pursuers were not far behind them. She heard Frank's footsteps crunching behind her, but no one is very fast over thick gravel. She couldn't even afford to light the flare in the dark. They planned it this way, the young woman thought. But it isn't going to end like this.

Soon enough, she made out the lights of the station ahead. Unable to wait a second, Mei sprinted the rest of the way there and reached the platform in ten seconds flat. She waited for Frank to catch up with her briefcase, and he helped her up onto the concrete platform before shimmying up himself. Policemen had begun to arrive on the scene, pushing their way through a panicking crowd that where heading closer to the tracks to discover what had made the loud noises.

"There," she shouted at Frank, pointing at the packed escalator. "We've got no choice."

"No, he said, still holding his injured leg. "We've gotta take the elevator. It'll be faster."

The pair met the charging crowd head on, pushing their way through towards the elevator that would take them to the safety of the streets above. Mei couldn't afford to be stopped by police, and so moved with all deliberate speed away from the blue uniforms that were trying to plough through the human sea that flooded the platform.

Finally, they reached it. Mei moved to the side and hammered on the "up" button. More gunshots filled the air, and Mei turned to look back at the rail track. The crowd had began to part for black-clad figures, armed with silver guns. They opened fire on the police, killing several in an instant. She saw one turn his masked head towards the elevator. A young Asian woman near her screamed for her child.

A pleasing ding announced the arrival of the elevator. She was about to step inside, but a hand grabbed at her arm, preventing her from advancing. She was thrown to the floor, and looked up to see the man who assaulted her attempt to step into the elevator. Before he could, however, Frank grabbed him by his collar and hit him hard across the face with her suitcase. He helped her up, and together they entered the elevator. She picked up the flare that she'd dropped outside before the door slammed shut on the reddened face of her assaulter.

"You alright?" Frank asked her as the hum of the lift shaft began.

"Yeah, fine."

"Are you gonna tell me what this is all about?" he said at last. "Seems you know a little more than you're lettin' on."

"I'm sorry," she answered. "All I can tell you is that those... men are after me. This briefcase," she gestured at what he was holding, "contains a serum that can help a friend of mine who is very ill."

Frank chewed his bottom lip. "You have to believe me," she begged.

"I believe you, Miss," he told her. "And we're gonna get outta here alive. I'm not leaving anyone behind this time." Mei couldn't help but smile. "That friend of yours is as good as saved, don't you worry."

The conversation stopped as the elevator was brought to a screeching halt. Mei stumbled, and grabbed Frank's jacket to stop herself from falling. He steadied her, and they both looked up as a small creaking began to emanate from the roof. Another instant, and sparks began to rain down on them. The assassin was using a laser to cut through the elevator.

"Get behind me," Frank instructed. He put her briefcase down on the ground and pulled a pistol from the inside of his jacket. She stared with amazement as a square opening was cut in the top of the lift and a cowled head looked in. Frank fired upwards twice, once hitting the metal roof and then shooting through the opening. The assassin withdrew his face, and a few seconds later a small, round object fell in next to where Mei was crouched. A hissing sound emitted from it, announcing gas. Almost immediately, tears began to form in her eyes.

"Tear gas," she hoarsed, her voice breaking. She pulled a handkerchief from her shirt pocket and covered her mouth. Frank kept firing, until nothing but soft clicks shot from his gun. There was a momentary silence.

"Is he dead?" Mei asked.

"Yeah," Frank coughed, his hand covered by his own handkerchief. "Good job I still carry it with me," he said, cocking his gun.

"Give me a boost up," she told him. "I'll see if I can get it moving again." Frank did as he was commanded, offering his clutched hands for her to step on and then lifting her up into the ceiling. He picked up his tissue again, and put it to his mouth so he could stop holding his breath.

Mei pulled herself up onto the elevator roof. It was pitch black, and she hadn't time for her eyes to adjust again. She snapped the flare open, and used the red flame to look around. There was no noise save for the last breaths of the assassin leaving his body through a star shaped entry wound in his chest. Finally, Mei identified a metal clutch on one of the four cables leading up the shaft as the cause of the halt. She laid the flare precariously close to the edge as she reached forward towards the clutch. One slip, and she would plummet to her doom. Her fingers felt for some sort of release switch, but there wasn't one.

"Any luck?" Frank called from inside the elevator.

"Sort of," came the reply. "One second..." she picked up the dying flare and crawled back towards the masked corpse. She pulled the green light emitting goggles from his face and stretched the rubber over her own head, enabling her to see in an emerald clarity. In the man's right hand was the laser cutter. She prised it from his dead fingers and crawled back to the cable. Very carefully, making sure not to cut the cable, she applied the laser beam to the iron clutch. After a few minutes she had cut right through it, releasing the steel cable from its confines.

"Frank, press the button for the ground floor," she ordered him. "And then the emergency stop button when I say." When she could see the shiny metallic floors above, she called down again. "Now, push it," she held tight to the roof's support beams as the elevator jerked to a halt once more. "And get up here."

With some difficulty, Mei Ling managed to pull her choking comrade up onto the roof of the now-still elevator. She then slid what remained of her long fingernails into the crevice between the two doors that would open onto the winding corridors of the ground floor and pulled them open to the slightest of entrances.

"Check that guy," she whispered, handing him the goggles. "He should have a short length of thick wire on his belt somewhere." After a few seconds, Frank returned with an object that was very much like she had described. There was a small control unit attached, like one would find on a personal stereo. She took the goggles back from Frank and connected the wire into the side of the left goggle before switching it on. She then put the goggles on and threaded the length of wire through the small gap she had created between the two doors. Her gamble had paid off: it was an optic cable.

Turning the cable left and right, she saw that there was no one in the corridor before them. She checked the ceiling too, just in case.

"All clear," she informed Frank. "Let's go."

"I'm too old for this."

Soon enough they found themselves pacing as quietly as possible down the turning corridors of the train station, two people of very different backgrounds and lives united in a struggle to survive. Mei knew how brave Frank was being. He had nothing to fight for save her life, but he was putting everything on the line to do so. She hoped that they could get out of there like he said, but they had a long way to go...

Without warning, a gunshot rang out behind them. It missed Mei Ling's head by centimetres and smashed through the plaster wall before them. In her panic, Mei tripped and fell to the ground. She rolled onto her stomach, and saw Frank turn and open fire repeatedly at their pursuers. The eighteen year old could only watch in stunned horror as more bullets ripped through Frank's chest and stomach, spraying her with blood. Yet there he stood, continuing to pump the trigger until his clip ran out and he could no longer keep himself from falling. He slumped to his knees, his gun still clicking away in his hands. She crawled to his side, shooting pains running through her ankle from her fall.

"Frank..." she spoke his name softly as he turned to face her.

"Shhhh..." he spluttered more blood from his mouth. "You get outta here. Don't worry about me. I ran out of things to live for a long time ago. I'm just happy if I helped you."

"Thank you, Frank."

"'Bye, Mei Ling."

He held up her briefcase that still bore her name on the handle with his last iota of strength. She took it from him, and again felt tears welling up in her eyes as he died.

Commands came from down the hallway where the gunmen had stood just moments ago, and she forced herself to her feet. Her ankle still wrecked, and she hobbled as fast as she could around the corner.

A crowd of panicking people again faced her. If they kept running that way, they'd be mowed down by the assassins' gunfire. Mei found that she still clutched Frank's gun, empty though it was. She held it in the air for the oncoming people to see, and began to shout the first obscenity that entered her brain. Most of the onslaught stopped, some continued screaming past her. She heard gunshots behind her, one bullet ripping through an old Japanese woman by her side. Weapon less; the injured girl decided that all she could do was run. She knew she had no other chance any more. She ran as fast as her twisted ligament would allow, knocking anyone smaller than her that got in her way, her spirit falling with each of them.

For a second she turned back, and saw the green eyes of her chasers burning through the herd of frightened people. They were moving much faster than she was, and they'd be on her in less than a minute even if she ran at full pace, which her ankle deemed impossible. Not watching where she was going, she ran smack bang into what she at first thought must've been a wall. The impact knocked her backwards, and when she looked up she saw a large masked man. She said a silent prayer for her mother as she looked upon what could only be another assassin.

However, the masked man did not look down at her. Rather, he stood tall and faced where she had come from. She came to notice that his mask was different from the ones that the others had wore: for one, it did not restrict his hair, which fell loose over his shoulders; and no green light flooded from night vision goggles on his face. He wore a long, brown trench coat and what looked like a rubber sneaking suit underneath. In his right hand was what Mei recognised as a FAMAS rifle.

"Step away from her while you still can," he bellowed. When he spoke, it was like a thousand knives running off each other at once, assuring her and frightening her at the same time. Mei looked back, and saw her potential killers stopping dead in their tracks. She tried to stand, and felt the man's powerful hand pulling her behind him. The assassins stopped, not knowing whether they should attack or not. Mei counted six of them, all heavily armed. What remained of the crowd parted for her saviour as he began to step forward.

"Step away," he repeated his command. Five of them looked to the final one, who hesitated. Finally, he shouted:

"Attack! Gun him down."

In a split second, the man before her raised his gun. A burst of sudden fire erupted from it, and all six men fell dead. It took another second for blood to run from their heads onto the marble floor of the train station corridor.

"Are you okay?" Mei was surprised when Otacon was suddenly at her side. "Are you hit?" he asked frantically. She shook her head slowly, her eyes still fixed on the scene of the battle she'd just witnessed as it replayed through her mind.

"VII," Otacon called to the masked figure. "We have to get out of here. Now."

"You go," VII replied. "I'll make sure they don't follow." Otacon helped her to a vertical base, and picked her briefcase up from the ground.

"I can manage," she said, taking back her arm. If it were to be the last thing she did, she would make sure that Frank and others had not died in vain. Otacon just hoped that Rose and the getaway vehicle were okay...

VII retreated around a corner as more shot flew passed him. He fired round it, but there were more this time. Another glance told him that they were not as well equipped as the others, and for a reason he could not remember he recognised the way they moved.

"Ninja," he smiled to himself beneath his mask. Again he fired around the corner, but hit only air. They were a long way away, and if he could keep them firing their ammo would soon run dry. The only problem was, Emmerich had the other clip. He revealed his masked face for a fraction of a second, and found himself under more pistol fire from his sprinting adversaries. Each time he did so, he counted down the shots they had left. Many more, and they'd be defenceless. Now he heard their soft footsteps on the marble, and knew that he could wait no longer. He moved from his cover and emptied his remaining clip on five approaching ninja. Another four still stood, and rolled out of any further attack. They had run out too, but if his assumption as to their identities was correct, they were far from helpless.

No more shots rang out. The quartet encircled him, ready for the kill. He breathed in deeply, the threatening rattle in his throat causing the least bit of doubt in their movements. He allowed his coat to slide gracefully from his shoulders as he revealed his large muscles, looking from side to side for any sudden motions. He bowed ever so slightly, and invited combat with a flick of his wrist.

In a second they were upon him. A kick flew toward his face straight away, but he saw it coming and crossed his arms against it and ducked a second from his left, before arching his spine backwards to avoid a swinging right fist. One of the four attempted a leg sweep; VII leapt over it and spun in mid air with incredible grace for a man his size. As he came back down, he brought his heel into the face of the ninja whom had attempted the first attack, a sickening crack announcing the end of the usefulness of his jaw.

He saw another try a punch, but turned it into an arm-breaking counter. The attacker was doubled over with pain, and VII brought his elbow into the back of the man's head with immense impact and thrust his own foot backwards to prevent any attack from behind. It connected with the tight, muscular stomach of the fourth assaulter.

VII followed it up with a spin kick, which the man blocked and attempted a kick of his own. VII ducked, saw the opening for an uppercut, and took it. The ninja lifted from his feet with the punch and fell flat onto the marble floor, not to move again.

The final martial artist had his first, second, and third punches blocked, parried and countered. He back-flipped away from VII's kick, and used his incredible agility to leap towards him, feet first. VII stepped aside instantly, and watched the ninja roll through, turn, and charge. In a split moment, VII spun and allowed his hand to cut through the air with the motion of a ballerina. A second later, and his curved hand sliced into part of the oncoming skull of the ninja, bringing the attack to an abrupt halt. As though encoring for an invisible audience, VII smashed his knee into the rising face of the man who still clutched his broken arm, sending him to the floor and knocking him unconscious.

A sharp laugh rumbled around in his throat as the masked mercenary known as VII looked down at his conquered foes. There had been a reason why they'd sent ninja, a reason VII aimed to find and use it against them. In a sweeping motion, he picked his brown coat from the marble floor and hurled it round his shoulders, gracefully sliding his arms in. He turned, and walked quickly to where his allies had fled just minutes before, the sound of his boots on marble echoing through the now empty corridor.

The door to the cold steel cell opened, offering limited illumination. Snake felt himself being thrown headfirst onto the metallic surface of the temporary light shaft by the powerful hands of his two escorts. He hit the floor hard, and didn't attempt to rise before the two guards were long gone. For what seemed the longest time he simply lay on the smooth surface of the prison cell, letting the ice like texture run over his electricity burns as he slipped in and out of consciousness.

Eventually he dragged his head off the floor, and shifted with his manacles towards what passed for his bed. He needed to think.

It would be fair to say that Snake had expected some sort of rescue attempt by now, from perhaps Otacon or Jack. Then again, he didn't know how much time had passed since his capture, and his captors had told him nothing. He knew neither where he was, nor what he was there for. The only activity he'd had was being dragged into the large round room for torture. He did know that they were trying to make him deny his name, for whatever purpose. He'd say his name was Snake, and they'd give him pain. That was the routine. But for all Snake knew, Otacon could be a couple of metres away, receiving the same sort of treatment.

Snake had considered that if he was going to get out of there, he was going to need to do it himself.

****

**Author's Note:** I hope you enjoyed that chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. It was one of those times where the words didn't simply come to me: I had to work for them. Originally, I was just going to throw in a homeless person as an afterthought, someone to talk to Mei while she was on the train. However, since Frank has come out so strong, I'd like to think of him as a sort of tribute to the powerful character of a fellow Frank, Grey Fox, who was also heavily involved in the Vietnam conflict.

I know that "ninja assassins" sound worn out and corny nowadays, but these have not been thrown in as an afterthought. They are there for a reason.

Thanks to Lord Crimson and lionheart614 for their comments. Vamp will be here soon, and I hope to make him as complex and exciting as possible. Also, thanks to Scarbie for her reviews, and Ginger for her latest and for sticking with this fic throughout. Oh, and Ray AP2 for his worthwhile contributions.

Hobobob... fuck you.


	11. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

After five and a half hours, Snake had not even come close to regaining his full strength. However, he had no choice but to act, as his captors' footsteps were almost upon him. His mind ready, his body weakened, the captive soldier awaited his moment.

The usual red light above the cell entrance lit, and after a few seconds of heavy creaking the silver door opened and white light from the outside corridor again came flooding into Snake's confinement, split only by the figures of two armed guards. He hoped that the security camera above the door wasn't being monitored.

"On your feet," one of the guards said in a young but gruff and commanding voice. Snake lay still.

"I said get on your fucking feet, you sunvabitch."

Yet Snake neglected to move, and lay facing them, eyes wide open. It was the second guards' turn to speak.

"Listen, you sack of rodent shit, either you get up off your ass or we'll stomp you a new one. You got it? I'm not going to count to three. Hell, I'm not even going to count to one. You will get the fuck up right now or you're dead meat."

"Dead meat." A term Snake had heard before, no more threatening now than the first time he'd heard it. He would have smiled to himself if it didn't contradict his plans.

"That's it," decided the first. "Let's sing Sleeping Bitch here a lullaby."

As soon as they began to advance, Snake rolled his eyes back into his head. He heard their footsteps end abruptly. In his mind, he tossed over and over his dreams that made him awake screaming in the night and felt his muscles tense tightly.

"What's..." the second escort began, gazing in stunned silence as he watched his charge begin to shake and foam violently at the mouth. Snake struggled to keep control of his mind as his body slipped into post-traumatic shock, but he was teetering on a knife-edge.

"What's he doing?" The words finally emerged from the guard's mouth.

"It kinda looks like an epileptic shock... but he can't be epileptic. It hasta be a trick."

"Hey, he could be choking on his tongue," the second realised aloud suddenly, now becoming very worried. "And Ling wants him alive. Our heads will roll if he dies."

"...I'll turn him over onto his side, and then we'll radio help. You stay by the door just in case."

Snake could almost sense their panic as they approached. He fought with loss of consciousness, but he knew it was a losing battle as long as he was stationary. The footsteps on the metal floor grew louder and louder as he willed himself to focus on them. After what seemed like an eternity, the gloved hand of his captor touched his shoulder, attempting to roll him back onto his side.

Snake struck quickly, crossing the steel chains that manacled his hands together across the neck of the guard, and pulled hard. The man's neck held, and Snake twisted his own shackled wrists, forcing the soldier onto his back so that he was now completely covering Snake's naked body. He heard the other man by the door clock his rifle, exactly what Snake had counted on.

"Let him go!" the guard stuttered, desperately trying to regain his composure.

"Not a chance," Snake grunted. The man raised his rifle to Snake's head height.

"Freeze!" the FoxHound veteran commanded. "Lower your rifle, and toss the radio." The guard fumbled in his back pocket for his only method of contacting his peers.

"Slowly," Snake specified. The radio clattered to the floor as Snake counted in his head how long it would take the patrolling guard to return. He had twenty-two paces left.

"Now, hands over your head." Nineteen paces. The guard didn't move. Snake tightened his grip on his prisoner and let the raw choke fall from the man's throat. "Now!"

The guard's arms began to rise. Suddenly, Snake heard the man he was slowly throttling attempt to speak.

"Shoot...shoot," he tried to say. Fourteen paces left. Snake pulled the chains tighter and slowly began to stand himself and his captive up. The guard at the door dropped his arms and resumed his aim.

"I said freeze! Reach for the ceiling or this chicken shit dies!"

The man did as he was told at a snails pace. Snake almost lost count at ten.

"Pleeeesss..." the soldier in his grip choked. "I... famileee..."

"Shut up!" Snake held the manacles tighter still. "You do exactly as I say and you both might live through this. What's your name?" he asked the guard by the doorway. Seven seconds.

"What?"

"I asked your name, you little bastard," Snake hissed harshly.

"Private Jones, US Army."

"Your first name." Four paces, and the patrolling guard would be there.

"B- Barry," came the reply.

"Barry. Close the door. Quickly."

Barry did as he was told, and the metal lock snapped to with a second to go before the patrol guard rounded the nearest corner in the corridor.

"Good," Snake said. "And you are...?" he whispered in his prisoner's ear. A scratchy cough was his reply. Snake turned to Barry inquisitively.

"That's Neil."

"Neil. Neil and Barry," Snake retorted. "And you know my name."

"Well, Neil and Barry," Snake continued. "We have a situation here. I'm stuck in here with no clothes, no weapons, and presumably miles from home, plus there are two of you and one of me. But you're going to help me out." Barry had stopped trembling, and Snake could feel the life ebbing quietly from Neil, but remained calm. He strived to block out the pain of the electricity burns.

"Firstly, we're going to even the odds. Neil, shoot Barry." A tremor ran through both guards' bodies. Barry began to shake again. Snake loosened his grip a little.

"Neil," Snake repeated, "shoot Barry and you're neck is safe. I'll just tie you up and leave you here. But otherwise..." the hold was tightened on Neil's throat again, suppressing a cough. "... Your family loses a father."

With an immense effort, Neil slowly trained his gun on his partner. Tears of pain were streaming down his face. The other man's face was one of total fear. Snake, when in battle, no longer felt remorse.

Suddenly, a burst of gunfire erupted from Barry's rifle. Hot metal tore through Neil's chest, spraying blood out in front of Snake. The naked commando dove sideways and rolled underneath his bed, and prayed it wasn't bolted to the floor. Shots ricocheted off the walls and floors as Barry fired blindly. With a superhuman effort considering his injuries, Snake heaved his bed from the ground and charged forward with it in his grasp. Bullets ripped through the mattress, but the adrenaline rushing through Snake's veins almost completely prevented him from feeling one tear through his trapezium. Snake didn't stop until he felt his improvised battering ram smash his enemy's body into the metal door ahead. Skull crunched into steel, and the firing stopped.

Exhausted, Snake stepped back and let the bed clatter to the floor (there was no longer any point in stealth, the gunfire would've already alerted the patrolling guard) and watched the limp form of Barry slump uselessly onto it. He hoped that the two privates were new enough not to have their weapons electronically signed, a method of preventing the enemy from using their own firepower against them, but he wasn't counting on it. It was more than fortunate that the guards carried a key to his shackles, Snake thought.

He pieced together what he knew so far. He was being held captive in an extremely high-tech military facility, guarded by US Soldiers. This meant that the Patriots were involved, an expected but not entirely resented fact. His torture was being conducted, he presumed from the soldiers' talking, by a man named Ling, who was trying to force him to deny his name. Snake looked up towards the bleeping security camera and spoke:

"My name is Solid Snake," he said. "And I'm coming for you."

A plan formulating in his mind, he reached for the unconscious guard's M25.

* * *

The cougar had been tracking its prey for hours, racing across the roasting desert sand, spurred on only by the slightest scent of meat caught on the faintest of winds. Her stomach empty for days, the once-mighty feline had no choice but to continue its near-hopeless search for food or face starvation.

The smell began to grow stronger. The cougar sensed that this was no rotting carrion; perhaps the leftovers of a jackal kill. This was fresh, living prey, and decent enough in size to sustain the cougar for days. Her bloodlust made her go ever faster and helped her to block the hunger that had begun to enclose its stomach. It would take a worthy animal to stop her now, teetering on an all-or-nothing edge and determined not to fall. When she came to a halt, panting but not exhausted even in the midday sun, she did so with no sight of her prey. The smell was as pungent as ever, but there was no animal to be seen. Soulless, the cougar could not despair. Determined, she would not anyway. She would patrol her surroundings until she found her meal or until her life succumbed to starvation, whichever came first.

Suddenly, the lightest of sounds halted the mountain lion. It turned, and looked upon what it had sensed. It was an animal of a similar size to itself, standing erect, and furless but for the long blonde hair that fell from its head. Unbeknownst to the cougar, it was a man, one of the most dangerous living or dead. No fear could be sensed in him. He was Liquid Snake.

Desperate out of hunger, the cougar leapt at its foe, bringing into action a life-or-death struggle between two deadly creatures. The lion attacked with unrivalled ferocity, swiping through the air with its murderous claws and baring her huge canines. However, before her assault could even begin to damage the man before her, she was knocked sharply to the ground by a lightning fast fist. Her skull caved to her attacker's boot, and died to the smell of dirtied leather. For a while her body lay undisturbed, the victor standing over her, before a harsh voice chilled the hot atmosphere.

"Another of your out-of-body experiences?"

Liquid turned to the descending figure of a bearded man, arms outstretched to slow his fall. He landed gracefully crouched in the hot sand, and rose gradually to his feet.

"I know what I felt." Liquid replied in his usual arrogant British swagger, ignoring the perspiration collecting on his own face.

"Indeed?" The man began to walk slowly towards his comrade-in-arms. Despite the intense heat, he did not sweat. His skin was a pale grey, and his teeth, which rivalled the cougars in sharpness, protruded slightly from his mouth and dented his bottom lip.

"Mock all you want, vampire," said Liquid. "My brother's presence in my head, however it came to be, is no laughing matter. He could know all I know."

"I take it, then, that he will at least find a more expensive brand of cigarette." The vampire raised his head and watched two vultures circle overhead, the roaring sun casting their shadows on the body of the dead cougar. "Unfortunate. I can smell those foul sticks he smokes now a mile away."

"Your newfound sense of humour... unnerves me, Vamp. He could know of our alliance, our plans, my resurrection... yet there you stand, untouched by it all."

Vamp smiled. "Even if he does know, there is little he can do to stop us."

"Overconfidence, Vamp, is a weakness. If he knows of the LoB programme, then he knows my true role, and his." Liquid agreed that, with Vamp and RAY, he was near unstoppable as far as his genetic brother was concerned. However, Area 51 and its protection were an unknown quantity.

"You worry too much, Liquid," Vamp retorted. "If Snake faces me, he will die."

A smile spread over Liquid's face, matching Vamp's. "I didn't say it was Snake that read my mind." Liquid took pleasure in watching the usually stoic Vamp look on enquiringly.

"There are others from the Legacy of Blood programme that survived?" Vamp finally asked. "I thought it was just Solidus and you Enfant Terribles.

"It is possible, but as far as I know, none were blessed with psionic abilities." Liquid watched the sands roll over each other on the desert surface. "If only Ocelot's body could have told me more."

Vamp drew his long machete knife from its holster in his combat belt and resumed his walk towards the dead cougar. Liquid surrendered it with a step to the side and began his journey back to the Metal Gear Ray.

"You are sure you will not eat?" Vamp asked as a parting comment. "I have withstood pain before, but I confess that this heat in nigh unbearable. We need to keep up our strength."

"The brainwashing I underwent in the Gulf protects me from all extremes," Liquid replied. "Enjoy your drink."

* * *

Doctor Dawson stood rigid, like a soldier in line, as Ling spoke.

"This is Alyssia Markova," he said, introducing a young girl to his right. "I am placing her under your tutelage."

Dawson gazed at his new charge. She couldn't have been older than twelve, but she was beautiful. Her hair was a silvery-blonde, and fell as far as her shoulders. Her eyes were grey, and stared blankly in front of her. The doctor was a little disappointed that she had only begun to develop breasts.

"She only speaks a little English," Ling spoke again. "So you two should get along fine. You are to help her keep the newest patient alive, and to show her the full extent of your knowledge."

Dawson nodded, and waved patronisingly at her. "Hello," he mouthed, but no response, from eyes or mouth, was forthcoming.

"She can't hear you," Ling chuckled at what he perceived to be Dawson's stupidity. "Until I have my resident psychics release her, she is under my control."

Ah, yes. More of Ling's child workers.

"Any further questions, Dawson?"

Dawson shook his head. Ling raised his hand to an unseen party behind him, and Alyssia began to walk towards the door, still in a trance like state. Dawson, surprised, followed her out of the door.

"And Dawson?" Ling called, causing the man to stop in his tracks. "Mess this up, and it's your final chapter." Dawson nodded enthusiastically, and, scared he'd lose the advancing child, hurried after her. A few moments of silence passed after he had gone.

"You can reveal yourselves now," the Chinaman broke the silence. He turned around, and instantly four people stood before him as though they'd been there all along. He looked at the two teenagers in the middle and enquired. "Is our boy on schedule?"

"He has escaped from his cell," the girls replied in harmony. They were twins, dressed from head to toe in white. One would guess their age at sixteen, but in reality there were no known records to prove or disprove it. "And he is on his way here."

"Excellent," Ling said. "What of the others?"

"We sense two hostile thoughts moving from the North East. A second team is moving slower, but with a greater number." Again, they spoke at exactly the same time, almost with one voice. "It is too early to confirm it, but we sense our abuser is among them."

"The prodigal son returns," Ling smiled to himself. "He amazed us all when he turned your own power against you.

"Shark, Miasma," Ling addressed the final two people on either side of the twins. "You get ready. You are this facility's only credible defence against enemies as formidable as Vamp or VII."

Miasma was a woman of about six feet in height. She had long wispy hair, dark purple in colour, and her eyes were a misty brown and piercing. She was a woman of a very attractive build; hardly muscular like the man she stood beside, but nonetheless shapely.

Shark, however, was a different species of soldier entirely. He was huge, at least six and a half feet in height, and had shoulders like steel girders. His muscles could be compared justly to twisted metal, and he wore a skin-tight, rubbery bodysuit with an army trench coat over the top. His hair was a classic marine shortcut, and his demented smile revealed a row of sharp filed teeth.

"So, are you giving up on the brainwashing, or what?" Shark asked in his deep, malicious voice.

"It was a misguided errand," Ling answered, unimpressed with his underling's insolence. "If we could have got him to believe he was no one, he would have been under the Patriot's control once more, and the LoB programme would be redeemed." Ling sighed, before continuing. "But his will is too strong. Indeed, I would expect no less from the son of Big Boss.

"But he will fulfil his purpose. Now, go to your posts. I expect our friends very soon. Faith and Charity will mentally mask you from all eyes until the time is right." Shark grinned again, and began to leave. Miasma smiled too, but left a different way. As soon as they were gone, Ling spoke again.

"Are they gone?"

"We sense no thoughts in the surrounding area."

"It best be so. Is the Presence monitoring us?"

"We sense that their focus is elsewhere."

"Excellent. And the Deus Ex Machina?"

"The structure of the new Metal Gear is complete. All that remains is the combat data."

"Perfect," Ling said. "This Metal Gear model goes far beyond terran technology, and with the combat instincts of Big Boss it will be unbeatable. The Patriots think that we have built them a brilliant host, but it is we that it will make invincible."

"The final test will certify that." Faith and Charity, the two twins, continued to speak as one. Their minds were almost always linked, less like sisters and more like an amoebic, telepathic collective. Incredibly powerful when together, even the most advanced psionic blocks were useless against their combined might. Only Ling's mind remained an enigma to them, yet he was the man they were believed to trust the most.

"Indeed," Ling replied. "When the plan comes to fruition."

"What of Shark and Miasma?"

"They will serve their purpose. Once they have separated the wheat from the chaff, there is no longer any need for them to be kept alive."

"And your "daughter"?"

There was a short silence as Ling took his glasses from his face and cleaned them.

"She is the only hope I have of removing this stupid chip," Ling placed his hand on his temple, and as ever felt the small copper object just under his skin and hair. "The Patriots tricked me when they consigned me to this body. Although, it's not without its advantages."

"With the mental inhibitor gone," Charity and Faith spoke again in their eerie cohesion. "You will regain your previous powers?"

"They are not gone, only denied to me. When my "daughter" removes this circuit board, I will regain my power, and none will stand before us."

Ling looked up, marvelling at his two psychic students. He was the only one who saw them in their true forms, yet to him they were still beautiful. What he had with them was the closest he'd ever have to trust and friendship. He had too long been the Patriot's puppet, but soon he would rule with his Janus on either side.

There was a buzz from his desk.

"Ah, yes," Ling said. "My one o'clock, as it were." Ling went to his desk and sat at his chair. "You can stay and observe if you want," he told the Janus Collective. "But don't let him see you."

He pressed the button on his intercom in reply. After a few seconds, a green light could be seen. The door to his office opened slowly, and a tall man, advanced in years, entered, dressed in military uniform.

"Welcome, Colonel Campbell."

* * *

**Author's note:** Thanks again to all reviewers. This may or may not be my last update for a while. Check my xanga ) for more information. 


	12. Epilogue

**Epilogue **

The ancient 4x4 truck rumbled uncomfortably across the desert sands. It had originally been used for deliveries, so there were only seats and safety belts in the front. Otacon drove as best he knew, but it was never going to be an easy journey. He felt like Indiana Jones and Laurence of Arabia rolled into one.

"Anyone want some music?" Otacon called from the front as cheerfully as he could manage. Receiving no reply, he began to fiddle randomly with the switches. A sort of static country music erupted from the front speakers. He quickly gave up, and turned it off again. No one looked up.

Otacon reflected on the hardships of the past week. Snake's capture, VII's appearance, a near-death experience with Raiden, rescuing Mei Ling... He had spent so long fighting the tiredness that he experienced trouble dividing one day from the next; they all seemed to melt into one large, complicated tapestry in his mind. He couldn't even discern how long Snake had been missing, and he was even getting incidents confused in his head due to lack of sleep. Otacon knew little, except from the scraps of information VII revealed to him in riddling talk. What he did know was that they were on the way to save Snake. He hoped that he'd survive long enough to unleash some sort of payback on Vamp, the killer of his sister. How Liquid fit into the equation was beyond him, but he knew that Snake's brother was another vital piece of the puzzle. Most of all, he knew he needed to know more.

There had been little motion from the back, despite the lack of safety belts. A solemn silence hung over them all: Jack was still recovering from his neural shock, Mei Ling was lost in thought, a fearful apprehension limited Rose's words when she was awake, and VII sat brooding in the corner of the van. From time to time he picked up Jack's high frequency blade to study it, but said nothing.

Jack felt Rose's sleeping head on his chest, rising and falling with his slow heartbeat. There had been hours of doubt between them, and they had not yet fully reconciled, the shock of the attack being too big for either of them to cover with words. But her now pulled close to him on the van's cold floor, subconsciously needing protection, told Jack all he needed to know of the way he felt about his fiancée.

There were a copious amount of things that called the necessity of Mei Ling's attention. The events of the past day ran through her mind, as they did Otacon's. A strong connection with a man she didn't know yet felt familiarity to have been severed by death, the same sort of connection she hoped to make with her father. Mei hoped against hope that she could avoid her relationship with her lost parent sharing the same fate.

She had often thought to herself what she would say if she ever met her father. He had abandoned her at an early age, yet she bore him little ill will. Her mother had hardly ever spoken of him, saying that he "left because he had to." Often as a child she'd found her mother crying, sobbing in her room for no apparent reason, and it was not until years later that Mei linked the loss of her mother's husband with her rare fits.

"Pull over, Emmerich."

VII had spoken for the first time in hours. Otacon did as he was told, and brought the car to a halt next to a sand dune, hearing Rose stir. He'd considered asking the masked man for more information, but a steely rattle announced VII was about to speak.

"While I realise time is of the essence," VII said, unmoving. "You all need to be briefed, and we're ahead of schedule." Otacon got out of the van and walked around to the back. He entered, ducking, via the large back doors and sat down hard by Mei Ling. Rose sat up and wiped her eyes, pulling her head swiftly from Jack's body. VII's throat rattled, as unnerving as ever.

"For most of you, this is a rescue mission," VII continued. "And a chance to strike a major blow against the Patriots. The captive here is Solid Snake, who is currently undergoing psycho-torture. For Miss Ling, we hope to find information on her father in exchange for her assistance over codec communication, which you will all be equipped with.

"However, there is a secondary mission, which I have discussed with Dr Emmerich. This involves information gathering on the new Metal Gear prototype."

Otacon shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. VII spoke with no emotion, even in the face of possible annihilation. Otacon had formed Philanthropy as a Metal Gear deterrent, yet his former creation still demanded massive respect. VII offered it none.

"Obviously, only Raiden and I will be going into the field. You three will remain here, out of detecting range, and act as support team. Understood?"

Mei Ling's head rose for the first time. "If you find out about my father, contact me immediately."

VII bowed his head in acceptance. "Now," he began again. "Once Raiden and I have prepared, we can begin."

It took between five and ten minutes for Raiden and VII to get ready for battle. The equipment available to them was limited. VII had been able to salvage some important items from Jack's apartment, such as his HF blade and skull suit, and Mei Ling had provided them with the codec technology that she had held in her briefcase. Beyond that, they had a Berretta and a FAMAS rifle each, and whatever VII had taken from the ninja. He allotted Raiden an optic cable and night-vision goggles, but anything else he'd taken from the train station shootout he kept in the pockets of his trench coat.

"You have an infiltration plan?" Jack asked, sounding sure of himself for the first time in days, as he suited up.

"Of course."

"And...?" Jack enquired confidently, not intimidated by VII's frightening aura.

"And I'll tell you on the way."

"You realise we're not just going to be able to waltz in there and out with Snake? We're taking enough risks as it is, parking in the middle of the desert."

VII's answer was a harsh thrust of air leaving his throat.

"I don't trust you," Raiden said after a while. "I may not know anything about you, but I know this: you need me. Therefore, you need me to be informed. You need me to trust you."

When there was no reply, Jack slammed his fist into the side of the truck that VII was leaning against. "Are you even listening to me?" He moved round and stared into the small eyeholes of the man's mask.

"Hrrm."

"I'm sick of being jerked around. We're working together on this, whether you want to be the boss or not. I'm not being fed horseshit anymore."

VII considered his answer, smiling behind his mask. It was true, he needed Raiden's full co-operation, but he didn't want to reveal things to him that would confuse him. "Hmm. Alright. My name is VII, I'm an amnesiac from Nevada who can't remember anything before a few weeks ago. I'm skilled in several forms of martial arts, and I remember killing twenty-six people to date. I'm into eating food, drinking fluids, and, although I can't be certain, I think that I'm a Rolling Stones fan..."

"Bullshit."

"...And as you can see, I'm developing a sense of humour. What I have no time for is whiny little jackasses who bitch about not knowing as much as they "need" to while trying to keep their personal lives as protected as humanely possible." Jack looked furiously at VII, unwilling to let this go. VII stared right back.

"Fine," Jack answered, finally conceding. "Be a bastard. I've worked with them all my life."

Otacon approached Mei Ling, who was sitting alone in the sun. "Hey," he greeted her softly. Her head didn't rise.

"Are you sure you're up to this?" he asked.

"Yeah," the reply eventually came. "I'm sure."

There were so many things he wanted to tell her. He thought there was more than a friendship towards Mei Ling, but he hadn't even sorted out in his head how he felt. He couldn't bring himself to dump it all on her, not when she'd been through such a difficult time.

"Mei, I was..." he began, feeling foolish. She looked up, blankly.

"I was wondering if... when this is all over," for some reason, as he spoke, he imagined himself as a big, stupid wet towel. "if you'd like to come and stay with Snake and me."

She smiled vaguely, and opened her mouth as if to speak. Otacon's heart slowed as she closed it again and looked down at the sand. They didn't speak again for a long time.

Soon after the confrontation, Jack left VII to talk to Rose. He knew they didn't have enough time to get over what had transpired a few nights ago, but he had to at least leave on good terms. They talked for a long time, Jack confessing what he felt when he was under the Patriots' control; how he'd _believed_ what he had been doing was what he actually wanted. Rose seemed to understand, and held nothing against him, save for the fact that she could see his mission becoming a self-imposed penance.

But it was just so Jack to react like that.

"Live, Jack," she told him before he began his long walk. He ran back, and they shared a passionate kiss. He took a silver dog tag from his neck and put it around hers. It lay glinting on her chest.

"I'll be back for this," he said. "And this." He touched her stomach, and they kissed again. He didn't want to leave her; he would have given anything to stay at her side. All the doubts that the Patriots had placed in his mind had left as though they had never existed, and for the first time in his life, Jack felt contentment was within his grasp. Their tears mixed on each other's faces.

Before long, VII and Raiden were no more than tiny silhouettes against the evening sun; two determined soldiers who had found something to fight for, walking through the desert sand towards their destiny, whether it be victory or death.

**Fin.**

* * *

I do not own the rights to Metal Gear or any of its characters or situations. These are the property of Konami.


	13. Act Two

"_We are not to build certain rules on_

_the contingency of human actions."_ -- Artistotle

* * *

The following are decoded emails sent between members of the illegal underground political faction known as the Contingency in the year 2009 AD, used without expressed permission of the authors or recipients. 

**

* * *

**

**To:** CF

**Sent:** 1st May 2009

**From:** MPK

**Subject:** Target

Doctor Nicholas Ling possesses a medical knowledge allegedly unrivalled in modern scientific circles. We are unsure of his exact age, as no known records of his birth date exist; and if they do they are not made available to anyone but the most prestigious members of political society.

He has one offspring that we know of, though she is unaware of it. Other than that, he has no known living relatives. His current residence is unknown, though we have discovered that he is overseeing the development of something codenamed the Deus Ex Machina, and the likelihood is that he currently lives in the place of its construction.

Doctor Ling has two major functions in the running of the United States of America. Primarily, he is the chief physician of the President and Presidential Staff; however, this is merely a public cover-up for his real role. He is the puppet of a secret organisation that govern the US known as the La-Li-Lu-Le-Lo, the Twelve Wise Men, the Patriots; he is their hand and their instrument. It was Ling who kept in constant contact with the double operative codenamed Revolver Ocelot during his manipulations of Liquid Snake and ex-President George Sears respectively. Without him, some have foreseen that the Patriots would cease to function.

This is myth. Ling is nothing more to the Patriots than a pawn, or less, a convenience. Ling is only used by the Patriots because he is the best at what he does. He is the best doctor known to modern medicine, having won in his youth several Nobel Prizes; and a fantastic manipulator, rumoured even to have potent telepathic powers (though if this is true it is likely that his employers have negated the use of such powers, as is their want). However, the Patriots do not live or die by Ling's actions.

Nevertheless, Doctor Ling is a vital cog in the works of the Patriot external machine. If nothing else, his death would slow down their processes for a limited amount of time and send a very real message to them. By the very nature of our organisation, he must fall.

An attack on Ling would be difficult, but not impossible. He is the founding member of a group of apparent super-humans; or, as they have been defined, biological weapons left at his disposal. The group's members are as follows:

**Karl Mathers**

_Also known simply as "Shark", Mathers is the possessor of one of the best US military records in history. He led several top-secret black-ops missions under the command of George Sears in the 1980s and continued to serve the military at the President's pleasure until being drafted into FoxHound in 1999. As you know, he was never called into field action, but passed every entrance exam with flying colours._

_In 2004, Mathers was volunteered for the Military's Genome Army project. He was stationed at several nuclear testing facilities, including briefly at Shadow Moses, but was moved before the rebellion a year later. His continuing outstanding achievement put him forward for another experimental genome project: enhancing his muscular physique using DNA tissue obtained from various species of shark. The exact process is highly classified, but the result has made Mathers invulnerable to all but the most extreme pain and has put his physical prowess beyond the realms of human attainment. He can bench press almost two tonnes in weight, and can maintain a swimming speed of around 15 knots for a considerable period of time._

**Miasma **

_No known real name, Miasma is the name given to an operative seen with Ling on several occasions. The most infamous sighting of this mysterious individual was on September 30th 1999 where eyewitness reports describe her "evaporating" before an attempted assassin of presidential candidate Senator Michael Johnson, son of ex-President James Johnson, Senior and brother of the late President James Johnson, Junior. The assassin, who had managed to infiltrate the White House via methods unknown, died within a few seconds of the "evaporation". An autopsy dictated that he had died by suffocation. _

"_Miasma" has been seen in public on two further occasions, at Ling's side, and is apparently in the US Government's employ, though I can find no record of such an employment under any name save her codename. She has allegedly been involved in many top black-ops missions before her genetic altering. Her abilities remain a shadowy area, defined only by a few unreliable sources who claim that she can alter her physical density and state of matter by will. Whether she can or not, the very fact that Miasma is aligned with Shark is warning that she is highly dangerous and not to be taken lightly._

**The Janus Collective**

_As mysterious as Miasma is, there is even less available evidence regarding the final members of Doctor Ling's bodyguards. Reports have identified the Janus Collective as consisting of "three middle aged females", though have varied to "three young women", and even "two teenagers." There is one constant throughout: the Collective are female, always dressed in white, and never speak. Their descriptions roughly match those of three individuals briefly drafted into the ill-fated FoxHound Psi-Division along with operatives Precog Mantis and Psycho Mantis a few months before FoxHound took control of Shadow Moses in 2005, but because of the varying nature of these legendry figures, nothing is for certain._

These adversaries are formidable, and far beyond any operative we command. As such, I propose that we take a leaf from the Patriots' book in order to defeat them, a tactic they have utilised since their founding: manipulation.

If the following individuals can be deceived into fighting against Ling, then we will have struck a vital blow in the battle for Liberty.

**VII **

_The only information that we have available regarding this individual is that which you have supplied us with. Your recommendation of his skills coupled with the fact that he was a recent prisoner of Area 51 make him an excellent choice as a weapon to be wielded against the Patriots. _  
_Solid Snake_

_A product of a section of the Legacy of Blood programme, the Les Enfants Terribles project, Solid Snake has often been described as the penultimate soldier. Trained by the US Military, Snake is fluent in six different languages and has a known IQ of over 160, this figure estimated to be closer to 180. Thanks to his military training, Snake is also proficient in skydiving, scuba diving, abseiling and freestyle rock climbing. While his best weapon is his stealth, Snake has also been heavily instructed in the use of both small and large firearms and is a natural in the field of combat. In the past, he has defeated the world's best snipers in long-range battles. However he prefers to use his expert abilities in the field of silent infiltration and only relies on firearms when faced with life or death situations. _

_Snake is also quite capable in hand-to-hand combat, and possesses a more than rudimentary knowledge in several martial arts forms. In this area he is said to outstrip the legendary Big Boss and has defeated the Cyborg Ninja man to man._

_Snake suffers from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder due to his past missions. He is now a part time slow-dog racer but commits most of his life to the eradication of Metal Gear development in one way or another as a part of the outlaw faction Philanthropy._

_Though he has recently come into contact with the Patriots, I believe that more motivation may be required. I'll leave this up to you due to your history with Snake. I'm sure you'll think of something._

**Raiden**

_Raiden's past is a blurred background. It is known that Solidus Snake killed his parents in battle before he was taken to be Solidus's godson, and that he was trained to be a child soldier, earning names from frightened African villagers such as Jack The Ripper and White Devil. He was later christened Jack, but his second name is as unknown as his birth name._

_After the war Jack was given to the United States, who brainwashed his past experiences out of him by the use of nanomachines and gave him the second name "Andrews". He participated in VR training that simulated the past missions of the legendary Solid Snake, although they were largely inaccurate._

_After his VR training Jack was sent to a military barracks in New York. During his spare time, he met a Patriot operative known as Rosemary, who had been given extensive cosmetic surgery to look like what Jack's nanomachines had dictated were his desires. The two have since become lovers, and are currently engaged. This commitment could be one thing that prevents him from entering conflict again, but hopefully we can work around it._

_Jack was soon recruited by Fox-Hound and was put through further VR training until he obtained the rank of Snake. Soon after this event the Big Shell was taken over by terrorists that were being led by Solidus Snake, so Jack's codename was altered to Raiden to avoid confusion._

_His outstanding performance, though linearly channelled, in the Big Shell incident is alone evidence of his skills. If he were to realise that the nanomachines that are capable of robbing him of his very free will are Patriot inventions, he would be a more than susceptible factor to turn against them._

**Liquid Snake**

_Liquid Snake is the "brother" of Solid Snake, and from his early years was led to believe that they were both clones of Big Boss, but that he was given the weaker genes. In reality it is obvious that Liquid is the possessor of the dominant genes, and it has been since revealed that Liquid is the stronger of the two "clones". _

_Educated in Britain at Oxbridge, Liquid is known to have an IQ of around 180, this being slightly higher than his brother Snake's. He is proficient in seven languages. While not answering to official military services, Liquid has often offered his abilities as a mercenary to the highest bidder. He was trained for years by MI5 and later by the SAS, the superior British version of Delta Force. He has a massive experience of battle stretching back to his early teens and has served in many desert operations including the first Gulf War, where he was captured and held in an Iraqi prisoner of war camp. Liquid's brainwashing ensures that he can withstand extreme temperatures with minimum effort._

_Liquid was recruited by FOXHOUND after the departure of Solid Snake following the Zanzibar mission. He was furious that Snake had killed Big Boss; he had long wanted to achieve that himself. Due to his exceptional combat skills Liquid rose to leader faster than any operative in history and turned the group AWOL in 2005 in order to obtain Big Boss's remains for the purposes of genetic experiments. Throughout this whole fiasco he was manipulated by Revolver Ocelot, who was allegedly under Solidus Snake's (then the President of the United States) orders._

_During the Shadow Moses incident, Liquid battled Snake twice. The first time was in a Hind D helicopter; the second in Metal Gear REX. He did not confront him in a fair fight until it seemed that it would be the last thing he did, as he thought he would lose, being the weaker clone. He survived this fight after being thrown off the top of REX, only to meet his fate because of the FoxDie virus. Ironically, the FoxDie virus has bred with other cells in Liquid's physiology to become the only factor that anchors Liquid to this Earth._

_His arm was grafted onto Revolver Ocelot's handless right limb, which at first appeared to control Ocelot when he was in close range of Solid Snake. However, these possessions have now become more frequent. As Liquid is in control of Ocelot's body, he gained the location of Area 51. It's only a matter of time before the aptly-named Snake Virus completely consumes Ocelot's body and Liquid attacks. Before that time, we must make sure that the other operatives listed here are ready for a collaborative assault on Area 51._

**Vamp**

_Vamp is the last surviving member of the former governmental action team known as Dead Cell. He has been both Marine Commandant Scott Dolph and Dolph's daughter Fortune's lover, being bisexual. This is how he got his name, but could also refer to his seemingly supernatural powers. Vamp's real name is unknown, and his history is a dark one. He was born in Romania and lived with his family until a church bombing buried them. Impaled on a crucifix, Vamp only stayed alive by drinking the blood of his family. This is perhaps where he obtained his vampiric tendencies._

_Vamp's powers are frightening. He has incredible agility, rival at least to the best of Dr Clark's Cyborg Ninja (see Grey Fox). Vamp also possesses superhuman strength and speed, to the point when running on water is possible, and has been known to hypnotise his foes. Vamp is also apparently indestructible and has survived a bullet wound in the forehead with little ill-effect. Vamp has wiped out an entire SEAL Team squadron in mere minutes and appears to crave blood. Vamp is also an expert with blades, preferring them to guns._

_It may be that the only way to kill Vamp is by traditional vampire slaying methods. If so, then a stake must be driven through his heart and then his head completely severed from his body. However Vamp does not seem to be weakened by sunlight and this may point to the fact that he is totally invulnerable. If this is true, then he could be our most potent weapon, and is unlikely to take much persuasion as he has an animosity towards the Patriots, blaming them for the death of his former superior Colonel Jackson._

I bid you good luck in fulfilling your quota. I remind you that the Contingency is in eternal gratitude to you. Though the successful completion of this escapade is only a step, it is nevertheless a step in the direction of a free America. Please reply a.s.a.p. with any suggestions on how to improve this mission as our most trusted tactician.

MPK

* * *

**To:** MPK 

**Sent:** 2nd May 2009

**From:** CF

**Subject:** RE: Target

The only problem I foresee is the friction that exists between Solid Snake and Liquid Snake, and Raiden and Vamp respectively. What I suggest is a two-pronged assault on Area 51, with Vamp and Liquid attacking on one team, and VII and Raiden on the other, with both teams unaware of each other's actions. Quite where Snake will fit in I've yet to establish. Having an agent already inside the base when the attack begins would be the best possible situation, though this would be difficult to achieve despite the say I have in the running of the base.

I will do what I can to entice Philanthropy into action. I have considered using the blood ties between Ling and an associate of the aforesaid group as bait; this will be difficult, but not impossible.

Though the resistance of Shark, Miasma, and the Janus Collective will be considerable, I have personal faith in the operatives you have short-listed, and I am confident that one day America will once again be a free country.

CF


	14. Chapter I

****

****

**Chapter One**

The increasingly terracotta orange of the setting sun glinted duly off the twisted steel of the ten-metre-tall fence, illuminating it in the gathering dark. Two men walked over American sand towards it, their paces slowing as they came within detection distance of the surveillance cameras perched atop at five metre intervals. Beyond that, and the identical second barricade, they could just about make out their destination: a military station. Between the two fences, formidable Dobermans prowled restlessly. One of them, wearing a mask, halted their approach with a raised hand. He took from the inside left pocket of his long trench coat a suppressed M-94 Beretta, took aim, and fired it three times in rapid succession, destroying three cameras in as many seconds.

"Great," the second man sounded, sarcastically. "Now what?"

The man who had fired approached the first fence at a canter, and reached it in seconds. He took from his coat what appeared to be a small gun, knelt and pointed it at the ductile metal. As he pressed the trigger, a beam of light red emitted from the end, slicing the steel easily. He cut a small hole with a diameter of about 25 centimetres in the fence, one of the large dogs watching him intently.

The second man approached, confused. He looked on as the masked man extended his arm through the hole, almost inviting an attack from the dog. Not an animal to let a gift horse in the mouth, the canine jumped forwards, attempting to sink its sharp teeth into the man's bicep. In a split instant, the man pulled his arm back through the hole, dragging the dog with it. The animal's head became lodged in the razor sharp wire, the serrated ends of which cut into its throat. It whimpered quietly and released the man.

"Why doesn't it bark?" asked the second man. There was no reply, as the masked shooter craned upwards at the fence's top.

"VII," came the enforcement. "Why doesn't it bark?"

"It's an attack dog," came the reply from VII. "Trained not to bark, no matter what."

"That's lucky," reflected the first speaker.

"It's more than luck, Mr Andrews," VII said, still anticipating his climb to the top.

"Raiden," the second man corrected him. "I'm on a mission."

"Raiden, then. It makes no difference to me." He took hold of the fence, and shook it to assess its strength. He knew it would easily take his weight, but he always made sure. "It's almost as if someone wants us to get in," he mused.

"Even more fortunately, this is the only dog in this section," Raiden noted. He was right: further fences came between the other dogs and the one that VII had incapacitated, preventing infighting from the first line of the base's defence.

"Hrrm."

The two soldiers took hold of the fencing and began to climb. It wouldn't do to cut a hole in the fence big enough for them to fit through, as an escaped dog would doubtless be noticed by the remaining surveillance cameras. They reached the top in mere seconds, Raiden marginally getting over first. The distance between the two barricades was too far for them to attempt a jump, and so they climbed down before scaling the second fence while the Doberman struggled in vain to remove its muscular neck from the improvised collar. Despite care taken not to get fingers trapped in between the metal links, both men's feet touched the floor eleven seconds after beginning the second climb.

"So what now?" Raiden asked.

"Now," VII began. "We hope that my plan to get in worked. It can get very cold here at night." Raiden looked towards the sun, wondering if it was the last time he'd see it set. He longed for Rose's warm hand against his, and considered calling her shortly.

"Keep your mind on the mission, boy," VII growled, followed by the usual hiss of air from his throat. "We're Snake's only hope." Raiden took the instruction on the chin, despite what his years of VR Training and earlier field missions told him to argue. He turned towards Area 51, a place he never thought existed which now beckoned like a lost ghost.

* * *

Otacon sat at the computer terminal in the truck, typing diligently. Mei Ling was outside, sitting in silence with Rose; therefore the lonely technician had decided to take a few minutes, until Raiden and VII had reached the base at least, to write what could well be his last communication with the outside world: 

_Life is funny, but not like people say. One minute, you have it all laid ahead of you. The next, you don't know how long you have left._

_I'd like to say I have no regrets, but I'd be lying. People I hurt, people I killed with my own selfishness... sometimes I thought I'd never be able to live with myself. If I survive, I can't even have the girl I want, because she's not interested and I know it's wrong. She'd just be another person that I'd let down, that I'd hurt. I've tried to help her on personal and professional levels, and that's why it should stop. _

He paused for a moment, deleted the word "girl", and replaced it with "woman". Then he continued.

_I refuse to lure her into a relationship. With God as my witness I refuse. _

_I've always been indecisive. Sometimes, I'm not as strong as I should be. I've made mistakes in the past, and done things that would turn your stomach, and I have no excuses. But at least now, I'm fighting for something I believe in. _

He took his glasses off and wiped them with his shirt, taking care not to scratch the lenses with his buttons. He was surprised when he realised he wasn't crying. He'd delved deep into his own emotional past, and for the first time come out unscathed. Returning his glasses to his face, he laid his hands on the keyboard. He listened to the sand grains blowing over each other in the strengthening wind outside the van. It would be dark soon.

_The sky darkens, and I'll be cold tonight, _he continued to type. _But not just because of the temperature. I could die in my sleep, and not know it. I could be shot or blown up, or crushed by a walking battle tank that is partly my creation. Me, Rose, Mei Ling... we might not see the morning. _

His heart skipped a beat as he paused.

_I'm not looking forward to my watch_

The sound of his codec stopped him abruptly. Otacon left the word "watch" unfinished on the screen and answered.

"This is VII," claimed the ominous voice of the masked mercenary on the other end of the line. "Do you read me, Otacon?"

"Loud and clear," answered Otacon duly. The thought of Snake ran through his mind fleetingly.

"Hope you haven't been waiting too long."

"I've been pretty occupied," Otacon said. "How are you doing?"

"Past the first few lines of defence," VII told him. "Not too much trouble so far, but it won't be long until those destroyed cameras are noticed." Otacon was pretty impressed: Area 51, or whatever, was legendary, but had failed to put up any serious defence so far. But then, Otacon had dealt with legends before. "Can you get Mei Ling to log our progress?"

"She's... resting," Otacon stuttered. VII was silent. "She's had a long week, VII. Anyway, I can do it easily." It was a few more minutes of Otacon working before they spoke again.

"The kid's pretty good," VII broke the silence over the frequency. "I'm close to impressed."

"Well, he's allegedly been a soldier since he was six. He should know his stuff."

"Who taught him?" Otacon couldn't decide whether VII was taking a genuine interest in Jack's past, or just making the most of the calm period before the storm. It was hard for anyone to read his emotions.

"You don't want to know," came the reply, as the speaker pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose. Soon after, the two men ended the conversation by mutual consent, and Otacon was left once again facing a computer screen. A cold shiver ran down his spine, prompting him to rise from his chair and check on the other two outside the van.

* * *

"We could've just shot the dog, y'know." 

VII looked up a moment from his lock picking at his addresser. Raiden was looking away from him, scouting the sand dunes for any sentries or tanks within sight.

"What?"

"I said, we could have just shot the dog," Raiden repeated. "You had a gun and all." VII decided not to answer, and return to the more pressing concern of rotating the fence door's tumblers before the surveillance camera moved back to its original position. It was a pretty standard lock, but nevertheless presented a difficulty in the oncoming darkness. Finally, a small clacking signalled the end of its resilience, and the mesh door began to swing open.

"Y'know, when I was in the army, I'd heard a lot of stuff about this place. We called it "Groom Lake,"" Raiden spoke again. "But I guess names don't mean much in combat."

VII stood from his crouched position. "This isn't Area 51 yet," he corrected Raiden, prompting an inquiring stare from the younger man. "This is the Nellis Air Force Base. It'll be daybreak before we reach Groom Lake."

VII turned, and walked slowly through the mesh opening he'd created. "So we better get moving."

Raiden reluctantly nodded, and hurried after his now-running comrade, still keeping his eyes open for enemies. It was difficult in the dusky orange light to avoid detection and, not for the first time in their lives, both men would welcome the dark.

* * *

"What date is it today?" 

A cold, Eastern European accent penetrated the silence that had existed as two men prepared their assault on a base containing thousands of opposing men. The addressed was in the process of tying his lengthy blonde hair back with an army-issue bandana, and turned to his comrade when he had finished.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Sometime in May. Why?"

"If this is to be a day of reckoning, when the oppressors of this country fall beneath our boot, then I would like to know what to mark on my calendar."

The second speaker smiled, and finished arming. He looked down at his body; a body that he had thought lost to him forever, now its perfection recreated to the smallest detail. Too long had he been entrapped within an aging, however able, corpse. For the first time in years, he felt complete.

"By the way," his parasitic ally began. "I found this in the Big Shell." He pulled a small chain out of his inside coat pocket and threw it to him. The man snatched it out of the air, and slowly opened his hand to look at it. It was a military identity tag, with the words LIQUID SNAKE engraved in the metal. "I believe it's yours."

"Yes," Liquid replied. He took the chain in both hands, lifted it over his head, and allowed the cold metal to fall on his shoulders. "This is who I am now."

"Ready?" Vamp inquired. He was carrying but one weapon: the machete he'd used to kill so many. It was all he required.

"When you are," Liquid retorted, and pulled a control unit from his jacket. Behind them, the gigantic battle suit known as Metal Gear RAY, silhouetted ominously against the setting sun, began to activate, lowering its cockpit/head to about ten feet from the desert floor. Liquid ran towards the RAY unit, and with a sharp exhalation of air leapt up to its open control panel. He sat in the cockpit, and flicked several switches to start up the motions and arm the weaponry as plexi-glass closed around him. He looked back towards the ground at the figure of Vamp, getting smaller and smaller as the walking tank's head rose to its full height.

"For Liberty!" Liquid mockingly yelled over the RAY's PA system.

Vamp smiled grimly, and then crouched like an Olympic sprinter before a race. "For Liberty," he said quietly. "And Fortune."

As the Metal Gear began its first slow steps, building to a sprint that belied its huge size, Vamp began his run. His muscles pumped, slicing through the evening air, leaving his coat billowing out behind him. His feet sped over the sand, throwing it up into the air and swiftly overtaking the comparatively lumbering RAY. He could hear his own heart, beating rhythmatically. Soon he would be dancing to a different music; dancing to the sound of ricochets and the warm spray of crimson fountains.


	15. Chapter II

**Chapter Two**

Alyssia Markova, preceded by an escort of United States Army-issued soldiers and followed by Doctor James Dawson, Medical Degree, entered the large and well-equipped medical ward where her patient was being held under constant surveillance. The ward was the most technologically advanced in the world, and it filled the doctors who worked at the base with a sense of achievement and wonder. To Alyssia, partially hypnotised, it was just another place for her to learn her trade. Despite the telepathic interference, her determination was as strong as ever.

Finally, the squad team came to a halt at a particular bed. It was a life support cradle, not dissimilar to those used for premature babies at intensive care units. Beyond the glass screen was the same sleeping infant that the young Canadian had seen not a week before. The cradle was surrounded by medics, some standard and some army trained.

"What's this about, James?" The enquiry came from one of the four doctors around the cradle, addressed at Dawson. He was holding a clipboard, and looking at Alyssia. "I thought you were looking after the terrorist."

"Ling's orders," Dawson replied with a casual tone. "I'm meant to baby sit her 'til Fox-Hound takes over."

"Christ..." a second doctor interjected. "I thought the UN prevented the use of child soldiers."

"Yeah, well." Dawson scratched the back of his head and looked at the baby. "What's the situation?"

"A broken left arm, sustained in transit..." the doctor with the clipboard answered.

"What?" Dawson was amazed. The Patriots would have taken every precaution necessary to ensure the child's safety, especially as it was an effective bargaining chip. Through the baby, the La-Li-Lu-Le-Lo controlled the Gurlukovich Army.

"Some GRU rebels attacked the medical convoy on the way here," the fourth doctor informed. "Yusev denied all involvement."

During all of this, Alyssia had remained silent, staring at the child. She looked upon his tiny, sleeping eyes; and glanced over the white splint that exenterated the layers of fat that extended from beneath his arms. Every thought she made seemed to be processed by another mind before being filtered into hers.

She would have very much liked to scream.

"Anything else?" Dawson's voice began again.

"Yeah. There's a slight laceration to the head, nothing serious. Plus, he seems to be suffering from constant influenza, and he might be developing a mild bronchitis."

Pretty sick kid, Dawson thought. "Has he been vaccinated?"

"No," the second doctor chuckled. "We thought we'd leave that up to you."

Bastards. "Can't we get a nurse?"

"No, but your date might like to see it done." The other doctors sniggered at Dawson, the first producing a hypodermic needle from behind his clipboard. Dawson didn't see the funny side. These were relative trainees, no match for his years of medical training, yet respect was something that often escaped Dawson. After a small farewell they all left, save for Dawson, Alyssia, and a solitary guard.

"Okay, let's get down to it," the overweight Doctor sighed. "Alica, right?"

Alyssia continued to stare at the baby, and answered her name monolithically.

"Right... This," Dawson said, holding up the needle. "Is a vaccination against a very nasty disease..."

"Polio," Alyssia interjected, stunning her would-be mentor.

"Yes, that's right," Dawson said, after a pause. He had expected to have to start from scratch with the kid, but perhaps it wouldn't be so difficult after all. Just how much had Rene taught her? "How did...?"

"Hey, even I knew that one, Doc." Dawson was surprised to hear the nearby guard speak. He turned to him, with a look of slight disgust on his face. He didn't like being addressed by the brain-dead commandos that patrolled the corridors. He smiled sardonically at him, before turning to Alyssia again.

"Never mind. Now, we have to..."

"Remove the cast. The injection must be made in the left arm, to the right of the humorous, in the major limb artery." The response from the girl came as though from a robotic textbook.

"Okay, I didn't know that one," the guard chuckled. Dawson was beginning to get quite irritated. The sentry was very young, no more than twenty. He was of average height, and extremely well built, though not particularly handsome. Nevertheless, Dawson was not to be intimidated.

"Don't you have anywhere better to..." Dawson's tongue stumbled vainly around his mouth for a word. "...Guard?"

The uniformed man smiled. "Orders are orders."

"Whatever." It took Dawson around ten minutes to retrieve the saw required to remove the splint and a further five to cut through. Huffing and puffing, Dawson could almost feel the guard mocking him. "Do you know how to inject, kid?"

Alyssia took the needle from him in response, and made her way towards the baby. She held it in an expert fashion, and even tapped the end to remove any access fluid. She approached the bed, more than ever feeling the need to scream. She saw the soft flesh of the child, his eyes moving behind his closed eyelids, his slightly disfigured arm; and felt a need to protect him from his surroundings, those that hid an evil presence beneath a protective exterior. She screamed defiant calls in her mind, only to have them silenced by another consciousness. Her hands began to shake, and her eyelids flickered.

"Oh," Dawson patronised. "Don't you know how?"

But she didn't hear. She was too embroiled in a mental battle that was taking place in her head. In her minds eye, she saw the two girls that had appeared in Ling's eyes the night he took her form her mother. They reached out to her in fluid motion, and tried to grab her, to restrain her. She felt herself kicking and thrashing out at them, totally determined not to fall under their control again. She stared right into their white, pupil-less eyes and spoke in her native tongue.

"I will not be contained."

"What?" Dawson asked stupidly.

"I will not be contained!" Her shout echoed around the empty ward. Dawson approached her, dumbstruck. She snapped the glass needle in her hand and allowed the sharp pieces to fall to the floor. Dipped in her blood, the cracked shards hit and bounced off the polished ward surface. Crimson stained her dress.

Dawson saw her bloodied arm and approached her. If she dies of blood loss, it would be his ass. He grabbed her by the arm, attempting to lead her away, but she was as stiff as the floor on which she stood. He tugged harder, but she wouldn't move. In her brain, she fought the Janus Collective with all her strength, refusing to give.

"Hey, be careful!" The guard commanded. "You'll rip her fucking arm off!"

"Fuck you," Dawson spat through gritted teeth, pulling harder than ever. He grabbed her around the waist and started to drag her away. The guard gripped Dawson's arm. He shook it off, and continued to pull the girl from the ward. The guard looked on, bewildered and angry.

"Leave her be!" he growled.

"Fuck you," Dawson repeated, more forcibly. "If you follow me, I swear you'll lose your fucking job." He left towards his office, dragging Alyssia by her waist, the hairs on his arms stimulated strangely by the touch of her flesh.

The guard watched him go, feeling conflicted and furious. He stood alone in the emptied ward, with nothing but the soft bleeping of the baby's heart monitor creating noise. He wanted to go after the Doctor, not trusting him. He had a feeling that the girl was being hurt in some way. Though he was by no means a saint, the soldier did have soft spots in his otherwise ruthless heart, and child abuse struck a particularly unsavoury chord with him.

But his orders were to remain in the ward, and staying in line and straightening his back was the only way he could see of ever getting out of this dead-end base-guarding and back into the real Army with some real work.

His radio intercom buzzed into life. "Private Brooks, Nathan, to the cells. Back-up required." He waited a second before answering, still staring at the sliding door out of which Dawson had struggled to make his exit. "Private Brooks, do you copy?"

A decision had to be made. Should he follow his conscious, or his orders?

"Unable to comply. Another situation has arisen. Over."

"Do you require assistance?"

"Negative," Brooks replied, and began to move towards Dawson's retreat. "Investigation in progress. Brooks out." His walk turned into a jog as he followed the Doctor.

Suddenly, pain flooded Brooks' mind. His forward motion halted, and he knelt to the floor, letting his rifle's shoulder strap pull taunt with the weight, and attempted to stem the agony that clouded his vision. The world span, and his muscles tensed as though awakening from a falling dream. But there was no stopping it.

* * *

Doctor Nicholas Ling, advanced of years and possessing a medical knowledge allegedly unrivalled in modern scientific circles, has a face that betrays his true age. It is the face of someone passing into their fifties, when in fact he is much older. He paces his office casually, often stopping to admire the paintings of rivers and misty fields that hang beautifully framed on the walls, and from time to time will sit motionless in his chair and take them all in at once. He longs for the freedom he once had, walking up and down like an entrapped animal the corridors of his mind; huge expanses to you or I, minute compared to what he is used to.

However, even he, a genius by any standard, was unnerved and even alarmed by the sudden scream that had erupted collectively from the mouths of his two protégés. They had been deep in conversation when both Charity and Faith, the identical twins that comprised the Janus Collective, had let forth the chilling sound. For miles around the facility, the psychic shockwave had been extremely painful to all those without a psychic inhibitor, like a serious but temporary migraine. The closer the proximity to Ling's office, the worse the pain.

The two psychic sisters knelt at his feet, though neither of their bodies touched the floor respectively. Doctor Ling was relieved to see that levitation was no longer beyond them. He tried calling out to them verbally, and cursed the Patriots' inhibitor, but there was no answer. The Collective were locked in a battle with one of the most defiant minds they had ever encountered, and for the first time for as long as he could remember, Doctor Nicholas Ling was afraid.

* * *

Snake stumbled over the gaping exit wounds that his M25 had punched into the dead bodies of the guards, trying desperately to block out the telepathic intrusion that rang like an alarm in the forefront of his mind. He'd experienced a psychic mind blast before when infiltrating Shadow Moses, but this one was different. Whereas Psycho Mantis's mental attacks had been controlled, penetrating mental defences when they were at their most weakened, these were totally random. It was the difference between fighting a martial artist and a (albeit very strong) street fighter.

Snake approached the door that read ITEM QUARANTINE, letting the expected buzz deny his access. He knelt down to the body of the room's guard, which was fortunately not long dead. Snake's getting through the door was reliant on the necessary ID card the guard carried being able to register with his personal area network, his body's electronic field. Snake counted that since the body was still warm, the card should still work. He lifted the corpse, not an easy task for a man fighting with the equivalent of a migraine and experiencing painful muscle spasms (an after effect of electro-torture), and held it a about a metre from the door. It slid open.

Barry's clothing had proved too tight a fit to wear entirely, but using it as a disguise had never been Snake's plan. He only needed the soldier's boots (which were at least a size too small), trousers and sub machine gun in order to reach wherever the prisoners' personal items were kept. He had known that stealth couldn't have helped him against alerted US Army recruits in these tight corridors... not until he had retrieved his inventory in any case.

The room was large, but appeared small and boxy due to the rows and rows of what appeared to be filing cabinets, with each presumably pullout container being the size of a small door. It reminded Snake of a morgue. Before too much searching, the operative had found the drawer labelled "SNAKE". Praying it wasn't locked, he pulled it open, a task which required both hands due to the size of the container and his own body's temporary limitations.

The contents took him by surprise. Inside there were eight different sections, each labelled with roman numerals. Snake was quite positive that he'd not even had on him that many items when he'd been taken, let alone enough to be filed into eight different categories. Nevertheless, now was not the time for questions: there'd be plenty of opportunities for that later, if he got his way. Instead, Snake opened the first compartment.

Within was a peculiar set of items which Snake was pretty sure he'd never owned before, though the sight of them gave him something like déjà vu. A few minutes of rummaging revealed: several army uniforms with different camouflage patterns; an array of outdated weaponry; a basic two-way transmission radio; and, most curiously, a worn black eye patch. None of the above belonged to him, nor could have been of use to him, so he pressed on to the second compartment. Finding this strangely empty, he closed it quickly and swung open the third.

The third compartment housed many items. Like the first, there was an eye patch, though it seemed new and hardly worn. There was a prototype bodysuit, Army model, which Snake had seen only once previously, though he recognised it more from the official blueprints Otacon had downloaded. Its design was to increase the strength of the wearer by feeding adrenaline straight into the muscles while keeping all bodily functions in check, practically removing the risk of heart attacks. In addition, there could be attached up to four extra tentacle-style "limbs" which were controlled by mental commands by the wearer. Snake had never worn one before, but he knew someone who had. This should not have come as a surprise: the drawer read "Snake", it didn't specify which.

The contents of the fourth compartment, like its predecessors, shocked and amazed Snake. In addition to the clothing Snake had been wearing the night he was kidnapped, there were also four different sneaking suits: two of them early Fox-Hound models, one that Snake presumed to be a replica of that which he had worn for all his Philanthropy missions to date, and the more advanced insulated rubber stealth suit with bleeding control that Snake had utilised in Shadow Moses. There was a Navy SEALS uniform with the inscription "LT. JR. I. PLISKIN", along with various other clothing and items that conjured up bad memories. Snake found a collection of bandanas he'd worn before along with an impressive arsenal of weaponry, including tranquiliser rounds, assault rifles, and handguns. He'd used them all before. The more he knew, the more questions he had...

Eventually, Snake found what he was looking for: Codec transmission equipment. Once equipped, he dressed himself quickly in the Philanthropy threads, still pondering who had collected all this stuff, and how. He left the nearly-empty Swiss SMG on the ground and took up a Beretta M92F, which he remembered modifying to fire tranquilisers, and loaded it with tranq rounds, as he had no compunction to kill any more American soldiers. Just in case, he also grabbed a SOCOM pistol, some chaff-grenades, and a couple of flash-bangs. To complete his preparation, he wrapped a dark blue bandana around his head, realising for the first time that he had been shaved bald.

Another of Snake's objectives had now been achieved, and next on his list was to contact Otacon. If Snake had been taken so easily, he didn't hold out much hope that his Philanthropy partner had avoided capture, so Codec-ing him was a priority. However, as he had been readying himself, Snake had been intrigued further by the contents of the remaining three compartments in the "SNAKE" file. He felt a strong urge to know what was in each of them; indeed, he felt it was his right.

Finally, he concluded that knowing his friend was safe was more important. He knelt on one knee and pushed his neck's aching flesh, tuning the Codec into the necessary frequency.

"Snake?" the elated sound of Hal Emmerich's voice inquired. "Is that really you?"

"It's me," Snake said slowly. He hadn't forgotten their disagreement, but now was not the time to bring it up again. "What's the situation? Where the hell am I?"

"Snake," Otacon said again. "You're not going to believe this, but you're in Area 51."

"Area 51, huh?" Snake had heard of it before, and his Fox-Hound experience told him it was real.

"You don't sound too surprised," Otacon commented. "I thought it was just a legend, dreamt up by supermarket tabloids."

"You'd be surprised how often a day-to-day journalist knows as much as a former black-ops operative. I knew it was real, but I've no idea what it's for."

"Well, from what I can gather, it's the basket the Patriots keep all their eggs in," Otacon replied, pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. "They're holding you and a new weapon there."

"A new weapon?" Snake inquired, and read the answer in Otacon's eyes. "...Metal Gear?"

Otacon nodded. "One to add to the hit list. I can support you from here: I'm a few miles outside the Nellis Air Force Base, with Mei Ling."

"Mei Ling?" Snake growled. "What does she have to do with this?"

"Besides her being a great help, Snake, she also received an email about her father, which I've traced back to inside Area 51. She helps us, we help her," Otacon sighed. "Call it mutual gain."

"Okay," Snake conceded. "She can help. What's your plan?"

"Well, we've already got two people on their way to you. Raiden's one of them."

"I should've known," Snake grinned. Otacon had been trying to get Jack to join Philanthropy since day one. Snake could laugh, but truth be told, there was no one else alive Snake would rather have in his corner than Jack Andrews. "Who's the other one?"

"He calls himself VII," Otacon replied. "He's got some sort of agenda with the Patriots."

"He should join the club," Snake answered. "Are you sure he can be trusted?"

"Frankly, no. But he did help me escape capture. If you meet up with him, be careful. He's quick to anger, but a brilliant tactician. This was all his idea."

"Remind me to thank him," Snake growled. The pain was still thumping through his head.

"Are you okay?" Otacon asked.

"I'm getting some sort of psychic backlash. It's happening to the guards too, and it's getting worse as I push on."

"That explains the tingling I felt before," the technician stated. "It was like the beginnings of a headache."

"It's much worse where I'm standing. That means the psychic responsible is somewhere inside the base."

"Maybe you can follow it," Otacon suggested. "It might have something to do with the Metal Gear, like a kind of telepathic protection system."

"If I get much closer, I won't be able to think at all."

"We might be able to help with that," Otacon answered, getting a brainstorm. "Hang on a sec..." Otacon's face disappeared from the Codec screen to be replaced a few moments later by someone Snake hadn't seen for years.

"Hiya, Snake," Mei Ling said, the naïve chirpiness Snake remembered drained from her voice. "Long time no see."

"Mei Ling," Snake nodded, and added untruthfully: "As cute as I remember you."

Mei Ling smiled weakly. Snake's voice was welcome, but she wasn't in the mood for his pseudo-flirting. "Otacon tells me you're experiencing some sort of psychic interference."

"Yeah, but I don't see how you can help."

"You'd be surprised," Mei answered. "Do you know how the Codec works?"

"I know it involves nanomachines and the bones of my ear, but that's about it," Snake admitted, failing to see how this was of any relevance.

"Kinda. It actually has more to do with your brain. In a nutshell, the nanomachines you've injected yourself with enhance your brain's functions and allows you to communicate with others on a level very similar to that of telepathy. It sends messages to your ears, eyes and mouth, and those of the person you're speaking to, which in turn send messages back to your brain, so it feels as though you are actually speaking. Touching the nanos in your neck or wrists, or anywhere where there's a major artery, merely activates those that are travelling through your brain via radio sensors."

"Fascinating," Snake lied unconvincingly. "What does this have to do with me?"

"The nanos register all forms of telepathy, including incoming Codec transmissions. I can send you a programme which will block any invasive telepathy except that of Codec transmissions, as they operate on a slightly different wavelength to that of psychic probes."

"What's the catch?"

"What makes you think there's a catch?" Mei Ling would've been annoyed with Snake's attitude if she weren't attributing all anti-social behaviour to the psychic probes.

"There's always a catch."

"Well, we'll have to use burst transmissions, and the Codec probably won't work at all in cramped areas, like an air vent. It might even be blocked by a chaff grenade."

"I won't ask why," Snake said, not wanting another OTT explanation from the chattering nanny. "How soon can you send me the programme?"

"It might take a few minutes," Mei replied. "In the meantime, you'll just have to put up with the pain."

"I'm getting used to it lately. Make sure you send it to the other two: I'm sure they'll be needing it as much as me right now."

"Will do. Good luck, Snake!" Mei Ling signed off more cheerfully than when she'd signed on. She sat back in her chair, and looked over to both Otacon and Rose, who'd came in to the van hours before to escape the gathering cold and had not yet been able to find sleep. A smile spread across Mei Ling's face at them both. For the first time in ages, they were all filled with hope. After all, Solid Snake was the man who could make the impossible possible.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Long time no note! This was a difficult chapter to write (I actually started it before I'd started the last three chapters), but once I got to Snake I really picked up steam. After all that editing and re-reading, I'm still not 100 happy with the first part with Alyssia, but I can't be doing this forever. Act Two: Chapter One was something that I enjoyed more.

Thanks to newcomers Meirelle Emeraldeyes, Maximus1, Angel of Hope and Miracles, Essex01, SJACK and others for checking out my fanfic. It just goes to show that you don't need "Metal Gear Solid" in the title to get more reviews than you deserve! Since you all took the time to comment, I feel compelled to reply...

**Scarbie: **Cheers for all the reviews. You really seem to understand and appreciate what I was trying to accomplish with each chapter. I think I've made Dawson as prickish as possible, and he'll get worse, but will he get his comeuppance? We'll just have to wait and see what I think of. Yeah, Frank was cool while he lasted, but he had to go. He'd started to make the backstage area smell.

**Essex01: **Don't worry, I'm not adding any more characters for the time being. The sudden overload should be enough to keep everyone going for a while, and I'm going to try to build them all up to at least half the level of Snake in upcoming chapters. Try and fail, probably.

**Meirelle: **Snake's back, and luckily he won't be off the scene for too long. Cheers for your reviews!

**Ginger Ninja: **I'm backtracking a bit here, but thanks for the well wishing about my results. How're you doing academically at the moment? Hope you're enjoying Act Two.

**TUG: **I agree that Shark is a bit generic, and the Janus Collective annoy even me at the moment. But they will be paramount to some future ideas that I have, and they won't stay as they are for long. Trust me. I think that Miasma is going to piss some realists off, and to be honest I haven't been forward-thinking enough to plan out what her personality is going to be like, so she could be the weak link. Let's hope I have some sort of half-decent brainwave. If you don't like Liquid, you're probably going to be disappointed, as he'll be involved frequently (but luckily, so will Vamp). I find him to be less fascinating than Solidus or even Big Boss, as he can be just bad for the sake of being bad, but interesting nonetheless.

**SJACK: **Yeah... I wonder about Sniper Wolf too. What did she ever see in him? And did Hal really think he had a chance? She was so, so hot... -drools-... If only she were real, sane and not a mass of busty polygons, huh?

**Pablosky: **Yeah, the "name denial" was pissing me off too. Luckily though, it looks like Snake doesn't even need anyone to rescue his ass...

**SnakeEater23: **Dude, vomit your verbal shit on your own time. You still sad 'cos I punk'd you out with a review? Too bad. Learn how to write, get over it, play MGS through at least once, and get the fuck off my review pages, you angsty bitch.

**Maximus1: **Yeah, Doctor Ling. I just fucking realised about a month ago that "Ling" ain't gonna be Mei Ling's last name... you're just gonna have to bear with my bullshit for the time being. At least he's not going to be shooting energy blasts from his ass or turning people into moths... at least until I run out of brain cells. As for Ocelot, I was planning on making him dead and buried, but I've just started to like the senile gunslinger as a character, so I might think of something to bring him back for a bit. Thanks for reviewing, and I hope you stick with me.

And that's just about enough of kissing your collective ass for the time being. On a final note, I'd like to point out that Shade Wolf was kind enough to beta-read this chapter, but had nothing worthwhile to add.


	16. Chapter III

**Chapter Three**

"Hrrm."

VII and Raiden stood in silenced awe at the bloodstained battlefield that had been the desert ground surrounding the Guard Shack. The sheet metal structure, separate from the main building, had been totally obliterated, and bodies of the dead and wounded lay lacerated and massacred on the sandy soil.

Raiden moved his hand to his head and nervously stroked the spiked hair on the back. A cold shiver ran down his spine, the product of the freezing darkness and the sight laid out before him. He felt like calling Rose again, just to hear the sound of her reassuring voice. He willed his eyes to stay open, staring at the gore that was worse than anything he'd seen since his childhood. Broken bodies of soldiers lay burned and bleeding in the night, and the still living wailed incoherent calls for the All Mighty to spare them.

VII knelt down at a nearby corpse, presumably to inspect it. After a few seconds, he spoke, his back still to Raiden.

"Knife wounds," he murmured, more to himself than his compatriot. Raiden slowly turned and looked over at VII, not entirely taking in what had been said. When it finally registered, it didn't make sense: there were bodies all around that had literally been torn in half by gunfire, and some looked as though they had been crushed, their intestines actually pounded into the sand by something very large and heavy. His mind began to piece it together.

"Jesus… this is not good," the younger man said, realising their enemies' capabilities. He'd stopped Metal Gear RAY models before, but that was with firepower way beyond the comparatively low standards of weapons he currently possessed.

"On the contrary," VII growled. "They've cleared a path for us." He walked towards a oversized pile of assorted rubble that had been messily assembled from the fallen east wall and part of the supporting beams of the Guard Shack and began pulling random pieces of concrete and metal, digging for something underneath. Raiden followed him; standing to one side so as not to hinder whatever process VII was putting into practice.

"What are we looking for?" the former FOX-HOUND operative enquired.

"Transport," VII grunted, the rattling in his throat getting heavier with exercise. "Are you going to help, or just stand there?"

With the two men on the job, it was not long before they had uncovered a small open-top military jeep. The windscreen was smashed, the bonnet crushed and it no longer had doors, but, if it worked, it would be better than travelling on foot. Liquid and Vamp were already way ahead of them.

When enough smashed material had been cleared, VII turned the key that was already in the ignition. When nothing happened, he walked round to the front and lifted the remnants of the bonnet. The dark made it impossible to see much.

"Hrrm," he murmured as he studied the engine. "I don't think it's been crushed."

"Let me have a look," Raiden interjected forcefully, shunting past the static form of VII and bending beneath the hood. VII willingly stepped back as Raiden messed with wires and reconnected lines to fuel gauges, assisted by a flashlight he'd picked up from the body of a nearby soldier, which he held awkwardly in his teeth. After a few minutes, he spoke again: "Try it now."

VII turned the key again, and the jeep stuttered nervously to life. Raiden re-emerged from beneath the hood, the grey material covering his hands blackened with oil. He used his wrist to wipe his forehead of fuel, and almost dropped the torch in the sand.

"Follow the yellow blood road," he said, leaping into the back seat and picking up his FA-MAS.

* * *

Snake pushed on through the empty corridors of Area 51, the contents of the container preying on his mind. His only opposition had been guards too weak to stand, let alone shoot, which left him free to concentrate on what he had seen. It had contained his gear, everything he'd used on a mission before.

…And some things he hadn't.

He wanted to go back, to study it more carefully, to see what remained to be seen. Snake even thought about telling Otacon about it, but something stopped him short of activating the Codec. In truth, these past few days… weeks, whatever… had made him reluctant to trust anyone. Perhaps it was a relapse of the post-traumatic stress disorder he'd suffered after Zanzibar, but Snake didn't feel himself. The torture had stripped something from him, something intangible. He wanted it back.

Snake's trail of thought was broken by a noise that echoed through the corridor around him. It was a female scream, a scream that Snake immediately recognised: one of the many that had lined the psychic backlash minutes ago. The operative quickened his pace and put his back to the cold wall when he had reached a corner, slowly moving his head to see around it with practiced coordination, his Universal Self-loading Pistol pointed to the ground. What he beheld surprised him.

There was a young girl, no more than twelve years old, struggling against a man who held her tight around the waist. The man was of average height with a considerable pouch, and was sweating from his receding brown hairline with the effort. However, as Snake looked closer, it seemed as though the girl hardly recognised his presence. She was fighting against something else entirely, something unseen. All in all, the man and the girl created a strange scene; hardly what Snake had expected to see in a covert military station.

Snake swiftly decided that he'd put an end to it. Perhaps the man could provide him with answers, he thought, as he stepped out from behind the corner.

"Freeze!" Snake commanded forcefully, aiming his gun at the man's head with robotic motion. He had no want to hurt or frighten the girl, but this was the only way he could see to stop the attack. The man looked up, almost in tears of exhaustion, and relinquished his hold on the girl. Snake saw him clearly for the first time, instantly recognising him from classified FOX-HOUND files he'd seen years ago. Peculiarly, the girl neither stopped her assault nor tried to run away. She continued to shout, and strike out at the air with pure hatred painted across her face.

Snake approached cautiously, trying to reason with her to stop. She cursed violently, frighteningly. He was almost within touching distance when one of her flailing fists was thrown towards him. Snake's reflexes were quick, and with almost inhuman speed he grabbed her firmly around the wrist before the blow fell. She continued to strike out, hitting him around the face and neck. It was clear that she was out of her mind, temporarily or otherwise. Snake calmly put his USP away and pulled the M-9 from his leg holster. Using a weapon on a child was the last thing he had wanted, but he needed to get her to a safer location, and he could only achieve this with her cooperation. He fired, and, with tranquiliser dart in her neck, the young girl quickly slowed her movements to a halt, going limp in Snake's arms after only a few seconds. It was then that his eyes met hers. The girl had eyes he'd seen before, but Snake couldn't place where. They were small and angular, almost like someone of Asian origin, holding within them a deep, saddening, and beautiful, blue. They closed slowly, and the violence in Snake's world temporarily melted away with them.

After a few seconds, Snake turned to the man in the doctor's coat. "Doctor James Dawson," he said gruffly, un-equipping his pistol. "Mind telling me what the fuck is going on here?"

Snake grabbed Dawson's stationary form around his coat lapels and slammed him against the corridor wall. He stared deep into Dawson, making sure his knuckles were pressing heavily into the Doctor's ribcage. Dawson stuttered an incoherent reply. Snake smelled the sweat, the very fear dripping off Dawson's body. The cowardice disgusted him.

"We're going to play a game," Snake told him. "I'll try and guess the Patriots' plan, and you can let me know if I'm right."

The Doctor, having no other foreseeable alternative, nodded as visibly as he could manage. A second later, and the formidable muscles of the military man pulled Dawson foward from the wall and rapidly dictated his journey through a nearby door, marked "MEDICAL SUPPLIES".

Snake watched the overweight physician roll around on the floor in agony for a few seconds, before he decided it was time to begin the interrogation. He knelt down and lifted Dawson from the ground, ignoring the screams of fatigue from his biceps, and walked him quickly to a nearby wall before throwing him against it. There was an empty wooden shelf not half a foot above Dawson's head. Ignoring the man's whimpering, he turned to a shelf to his left, on which there was a multitude of chemical jars. After a moment of searching, he found the rare specimen he wanted.

"Hmm. Variola virus," Snake muttered loud enough for Dawson to hear. "I thought this had been wiped out."

Taking it, he placed it on the shelf above Dawson, directly above the man's head. The doctor trembled with anticipated fear.

"If I guess right, and you tell me I'm wrong, then you end up with some serious sick leave on your hands," Snake said. "I'll know if you're lying."

Dawson whimpered again. He was sweltering more profusely than ever thanks to the liquid terror that hung above his head.

"Are you... you..." Dawson began to stutter. His situation didn't appear entirely hopeless: perhaps he could try to talk his way out of it. "You can't just... it could start an outbreak... another smallpox epidemic! You could kill millions!"

Snake cracked a smile through bruised lips, and unexpectedly lashed out hard towards Dawson. His straight punch missed the man's head by centrimetres and connected hard with the wall against which Dawson was leant. The chemical jar rattled on the shelf and jumped closer to the edge. It was then that Dawson got the game, and didn't speak out of turn again.

* * *

"Having fun yet?"

The arrogant English accent boomed sickeningly over the P.A. system of Metal Gear RAY, penetrating viciously in the ears of US soldiers who were the last outer defence of Area 51. All around, there were people desperately fighting for their lives. Any sort of manufactured cover or artillery was instantly obliterated by the minature missiles that the RAY unit deployed, and ranks were broken by frightenly fast charges made by the machine. Single soldiers were mopped up with the rail gun on the RAY's deformed, reptillian "head"; tanks put up little or no resistance, their shells bouncing uselessly off the almost indestructible outer counting of the bi-pedal war machine. Liquid Snake was enjoying himself.

The only other smile in the remote area was on the face of the presumed supernatural entity, Vamp. He dashed through the close quarter combatants like a ballerina, slicing through vital organs like an orchestral conductor cuts through air. All around, soldiers were lying dead or vomiting uncontrollably into the sand, which had been saturated with blood and other bodily fluids. Some battled on, but were ill-prepared for the lightning fast, hypnotic movements of Vamp.

He smelled fear erupting from their mouths, pores and crotches, and it made him hard.

The vampire sensed something moving unnaturally fast towards him, behind his back. He jumped, and somersaulted over the approaching object. Landing softly, he saw it was a jeep which carried two. Ahead of him, the vehicle swerved around, sending sand sweeping up into the air as the tyres whipped through the ground. The passenger lept off the back, narrowly avoided landing in a dismembered corpse, executed a commando roll and aimed and fired a FA-MAS submachine gun in Vamp's direction with practiced speed and expert accuracy. The vampire had practically no time to react, but managed to spin on instinct to avoid all injury, save for a few rips in his trench coat. _Interesting_, Vamp thought. _Raiden_.

Raiden watched the Thing spin majestically, and could do nothing but empty his clip at the thick air around him. His heart thumped like a fast handclap, but reloading was instictively fast. He slammed the next clip in and aimed again with amazing quickness, but Vamp had gone.

"Fast," said a voice from behind Raiden, surely too quiet to cut through the surrounding gunfire, yet as clear as the moon that lit their battle. "...But not fast enough."

Raiden whirled around, only to have his assault rifle ripped easily from his hands. A grip of cold iron closed around his shoulder as he met Vamp's icy stare, and he found himself being lifted easily off the ground.

_Stupid kid_, VII thought as he spun the steering wheel. _Get yourself killed on your own time. _

The jeep handled like it was on square wheels, but VII managed, with effort, to face it towards Vamp once more.

"Foolish and foolhardy as ever," Vamp concluded, addressing Raiden. "You're being played again, boy."

"You're sick," Raiden spat. "I owe you big time for Emma, you bastard."

Vamp's mouth lengthened into a smile, revealing the ends of two snow-white canine teeth that indented the skin of his bottom lip. It mocked Raiden's anger, almost taking a higher ground, ridiculing the importance of one small, frightened girl weighed against all that was occuring. Then, without warning, it lost all it's placcid features, contorting into an animalistic snarl. Feeding time.

As Vamp's mouth closed in on his would-be victim's unprotected neck arteries, Raiden threw up a last second act of defiance, in the form of a "flashbang" stun grenade. The magnesium charge penetrated Raiden's closed eyelids, causing small spots to partially obscure his vison, but Vamp was temporarily blinded. Long before the creature could maintain it's composure, the cascading jeep went crashing into it's side, knocking the vampire beneath the battleworn chasse and smashing over him.

Raiden picked himself up, having dived blindly out of the way of the jeep. Seeing Vamp lying prostrate and motionless on the ground, he saw a chance to fulfil his revenge. Reaching over his shoulder, he drew his High Frequency blade from the sheath on his back and approached Vamp. He was irate with rage, desperate to avenge Emma.

"Let's see you get up from this," Radien shouted at the unconscious vampire, and swung a decapitating blow at his neck.

Inches away from his injured enemy, his slice was halted. His arm was held sharply in place by a figure at his side. Raiden turned, seeing the featureless mask of VII staring back at him. He'd been so close. He cursed sharply in his mind, and glared at his ally with a face afflicted with pain and anger both.

"What...?" Raiden had intened to ask VII just what the fuck he was doing, but was cut off immedietely by a mechanically enhanced, English accented voice.

"Well, well, well," came the chilling voice from the gargantuan Metal Gear. "Isn't this a pleasant surprise?"

Raiden wondered why the sounds of battle had stopped. Looking around, he saw that the massacre was over. US troops were either lying obliterated or swiftly retreating back towards Area 51. VII had betrayed him, and Vamp was beginning to stir on the field's ground beneath them. Jack felt sick.

"THE Raiden," Liquid mockingly observed aloud. "The Hero of the Big Shell."

"...And you," Liquid stated, the massive armed head of Metal Gear turning quickly towards VII. "'Seven.' I wondered when I'd be meeting you."

"Liquid," VII muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

"Well, it's been an honour, gentlemen," Liquid laughed. The huge railgun attatched to the RAY's shoulder began to charge with an all-too audible hum. "But I can afford no interference in a mission of this importance.

"It's just about time for you to die."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Sorry that was a bit of a short chapter, but hey, it was fun. I feel I'm going somewhere.

I've noticed that some writers on this site don't like their work criticised. Sure, they don't mind if someone points out a small grammar mistake or two; but if a reviewer is to point out a flaw in the plot or something they don't like in the story, then the writer will often hit out at the critic, often in an impolite manner. You've probably heard, "It's my story, so if you don't like it then don't read it,"-type responses to reviews before, and I'll admit that I've probably been like that in the past before.

But no longer. If there's something in Legacy of Blood that turns you off the plot, or an inclusion or portrayal of a character that you dislike, then don't hasten to let me know. If you want to suggest a future development, tell me about it and I'll get back to you. I've not planned this thing out with a stone and a chisel, y'know. After all, I'm writing this for you guys as much as I am for myself.


	17. Chapter IV

**Chapter Four**

"Y'know, I like a gal in uniform."

The gruff voice surprised Miasma. She turned her head from her position, looking out at the desert on the base's roof, towards her addresser. She grinned, bringing the edges of her purple-painted lips into a seductive, if not teeth exposing, smile.

"You're supposed to be on the roof of the South Wing" she told Shark, trying to sound unimpressed. "You'll get us both killed."

Shark encircled her, taking in her entrancing aura. She was not beautiful in a supermodel sense; and though she was physically attractive, it was her movements that enticed men the most. Graceful like a fluently receited poem, Miasma was the complete opposite of her colleague. If Shark could still dream, he knew he'd dream of her.

"Nice try" he guffawed. "But Sharks can smell the blood of their prey."

"Does that line work on anyone" Miasma enquired playfully as she looked upon his chest... his large pectorals that were not fully covered by his heavy coat. He was like a well-oiled machine, beyond what should pass for man's prime. He pulled a sneering smile, revealing a mouth of sharpened fangs, each one indistinguishable from the last.

"Maybe" he replied, quieter than usual. He halted his repeated stroll around her figure when he reached her back once more, and advanced behind her. Without a second thought, he boldly put his hand on her hip as gently as he could manage. She shivered pleasurably at the combination of the building wind and his rough touch, allowing the brief gust to blow her hair back and brush across his face. He closed his eyes, and felt the strands of natural and silky fabric stroke his stubble.

"I can smell your blood" he said. It was true: copper-like stenches flowed through his sinuses, so much so that he could almost taste her blood plasma in his mouth.

"What else can you smell" she inquired, consciously triggering a chemical reaction in her body. Suddenly, Shark could smell sweet perfumes in place of blood; minted aromas ensnared his senses and alerted his tastebuds. He closed his eyes again, and came as close as he could to imagining something truly beautiful. For a second, a vision of the shade beneath a tree on a Summer's day seemed to be conjured by his mind, only to be lost amongst a sea of depraved thoughts and dark pictures.

"I can smell your cunt" he whispered.

Almost instantly, his hand ceased to grip anything solid. He grabbed for her waist again, only to grasp vainly through a human-shaped cloud that stood in Miasma's stead. She began to laugh: a taunting, sinister exclaimation that could arouse a man and make him shiver with fear at once.

Shark did neither; standing back, he saw her begin to dissapparate before his eyes. In an instant, she was a barely recognisable whisp of purple fog, though her laugh remained. The cloud moved towards him, and enshrouded him like a lover. Shark felt her touch, and longed for it to be flesh. He saw both the danger and the eroticism in his situation, and held his breath while all oxygen was forced away from around his body. He saw the smoke in front of him contort into a familiar smile. Grinning right back, he smiled in the face of death, silently daring her to kill him, knowing that she wouldn't.

Indeed, she did release him. Misama's formless body withdrew from the air around him, stopping a few feet away and gradually becoming solid, still retaining the dangerous smile on her face. Shark pulled from his inside coat pocket half a pack of cigarettes and tapped the box to make one of them jump away from the rest. He took it between his index finger and middle finger on his right hand and placed it in his mouth. Before lighting the cigarette, he held the box out to Miasma, offering her one.

"No thanks" she said, waving his offer away. "I don't smoke."

-

The two figures stood hauntingly over their fallen foe, the fatigue of battle betraying their magnificent auras. It had been a fight they were ill-prepared for; too often had both the Janus Collective been reliant on a lack of will on behalf of any enemy in order to ensnare them or secure victory.

The fight in question had been as glorious as it had been unwanted, incomprehensively being waged in countless interchanging battlefields, many simultaneously. The minds of others, linked on the astral plane that so few had walked, had been inadvertedly invaded and perferated by the attacks and sounds of the battle.

But there had been no winner.

The battle had stopped abruptly: the enemy of the Janus Collective, Alyssia Markova, had fallen from consciousness with the outcome still indecisive. Her astral form, which had been ironically brought and anchored to the intangible plane by the Collective, had been felled as her body succumbed to tranquilising drugs, and so the Collective now stood alone in a place that nothing can physically exist.

Their mentor, Nicholas, had always refered to their recent battlefield as the Astral Plane. But it was a place indescribable by vocal utterances by mere humans. It had to be seen to be believed, though none could ever hope to look upon or comprehend it with visual receptors as basic as the eyes of a man. It could only be seen and travelled by the projection of one's mind: an "Astral form" that could only be projected by those blessed with telepathic or precognitive abilities.

The Plane was, and is, a reality different from that in which we live. It is the ability to cross between our dimension and the Astral Plane which defines a telepath or a precog, as it is from the Plane that all activities of that kind are carried out. A telekinetic - that is, a being able to move solid objects with the power of its mind alone - has a vague understanding of it. The telekinetic touches upon the Plane whenever he or she exercises their power, but cannot operate on it without the use of telepathic means. A telepath can visit the Plane for as long as his will holds out, and from there he can access the astral forms of other humans, and even bring them onto the Plane itself.

A precognitive also uses the Astral Plane, and it is these types of superhumans who know it so, as time-travel has never, nor is likely to be accomplished in the three dimensional best. As there is no dimensional limit to someone on the Plane, he or she can in theory travel in as many dimensions as they want. By contrast, the world we live in is limited to three dimensions, often refered to as height, length and width. The fourth dimension is labelled by writers such as H. G. Wells as "time", and the ability to move in this direction is refered to as "time-travel". 19th Century paraphysicists such as Charles Howard Hinton have theorised that time is just a homo-sapien invention, an illusion created by a paranoid section of the brain. This may be existance we know. A multi-dimensional place like the Astral Plane, however, holds no such limitations. A skilled precognitive can in fact travel into the future of the Astral Plane, and thus view the parallel future of our three dimensional world.

As entrance to the Astral Plane (and therefore telekinetic, telepathic and precognitive powers) are all gifted by the same area of the brain, it is possible for someone in possession of one of these powers to learn to use one or both of the other two. Nicholas Ling knew this, and over time taught Charity and Faith, of the Collective, to develop basic precognitive abilities, whereas when he met them they had merely a telepathic understanding of the Plane. Telekinesis they easily discovered on their own.

Now the two concentrated, trying to move in a fourth dimensional way as instructed by their master. They were both wondering about their future after the battle, doubting their own abilities. Intrigued like a child who fears his Christmas present is redundant, they attempted to unwrap the future before the right time. After an hour-long minute that lasted a millionth of a second, they succeeded.

Visions came to them of a bald man with a gun, crying over an old man for whom he had no love. They "saw" and "smelled" death; whether their own or anothers, they knew not. They witnessed death being overturned and drowned by water for a lifeless body to function again. Fear surrounded others, sand buried them, air gave them life.

"Charity."

A voice called through the mists and confusion of time, interrupting the vision and alerting half the Collective.

"Faith".

Again it called, with a substance that could only be found in the Physical Plane. The minds of the two powerful telepaths returned swiftly to their bodies, surprised to find themselves lying prostrate, inches above the floor of Ling's office. Unconscious levitation was one of their most basic skills, learned to avoid death by height. It had not abandoned them.

"I take it Markova was even more resiliant to psychic control than we had anticipated" Ling mused, just as much to himself as his proteges. He rose to his full height as they stood in unison. "You realise that every person within a one-hundred foot radius has been killed due to the feedback"

The Collective did not answer at first, avoiding Ling's intent stare. But after a minute, they began to speak at once, perfectly united:

"We saw death" they revealed. "And resurrection."

This statement washed over Ling's face like gentle waves on the rocks, wearing it not in the slightest. Though inside, he pondered its meaning. Could it be that his resurrection was at hand?

"A riddle for another time" Ling toled them, eventually. "Don't let it distract you from the task at hand."

"It has begun" questioned the Collective.

"Yes. The rookie, VII, the Clone and the vampire have all arrived. Once we've dealt with them, we'll retrieve Doctor Emmerich and Mei Ling. They've yet to discover that they're well within the range of our senses."

Ling was fully confident, and with good reason: everything was going to plan. His goals were so close to his grasp, he was almost frightened to reach out to them. He cast his mind back to years ago, when he was first tricked into the Patriot's service. Since that day, he'd spent every living second planning, researching and preparing for the aim that was now within touching distance.

"Alert Shark and Miasma..." the Chinaman began.

"Wait" the Collective interrupted. "There's something else..."

While Ling had been talking, Charity and Faith had been telepathically scanning the base for any anomolies. It would be an understatement to say they'd found one. Ling looked inquistively at them, desperately wanting to know what they'd seen. Words would be too slow, and penetrating through his artificial defences to transmit their thoughts was impossible. Moving quickly, the Doctor grabbed a large glass picture frame from his wall, which displayed a Van Gough-inspired painting he'd created himself. He proceeded to raise it above his head, before bringing it swiftly down towards the ground. The glass shattered on impact, dispersing into thousands of tiny shards all over the metal floor. Like a flash, he swept his hand along the floor, picking up a copious amount of miniscule crystals, and in a fluid motion cast them through the air towards the Collective.

WIth reactions like quicksilver, the Collective froze the shards no more than a foot from their bodies with a telekinetic field. Tiring hours of mental training paid off as the Collective used their combined expertise to bring the shards together, forming shapes in mid air. A complex three dimensional sculpture formed in milliseconds: a shaved man with soldier uniform holding a smaller, plump man in a doctor's coat by his lapels. The soldier's mouth moved, and Charity began to narrate.

""I'll try to guess the Patriot's plan" she mimicked. ""And you can let me know if I'm right.""

Ling cursed in Mandarin. "Dawson, you charlaton. If you tell him anything, I'll have your lungs." He remembered frustratedly that all Area 51 personnell had been equipped with nanomachines that disabled any psychic attack. He could not order the Collective to shut down Dawson's mind.

"Alert Shark and Miasma" he said finally. "Shark can deal with Dawson and Snake, while Miasma holds off the new arrivals."

The room was silent for a few seconds while The Collective carried out Ling's instructions. While Faith kept the small scale reinactment of Snake's interrogation of Dawson running, Charirty asked their master a question"What if Miasma is unable to defeat the attackers"

Ling pondered this for a second, before a look of heavy realisation passed over his face. Because he'd underestimated Snake's resourcefulness, it might be necessary to play his trump card before he'd originally intended.

"Activate Metal Gear."

-

A spray of railgun fire errupted towards the three figures on the desert ground, sending yellow clouds into the surrounding air. Raiden expertly dived out of its path, executing a well-practiced cartwheel and landing crouched in the sand. He looked across, and saw that VII had not been hit. Almost too late, he once again dodged out of the way of the bullets from the formidable Metal Gear RAY unit, the former roaring past him and almost drowning out the laughs that shot from the controller of the latter. He found himself knelt again, the jeep seperating the RAY from him. He was mere feet away from Vamp's stationary body.

Daring to peer over, Raiden saw a small explosion from RAY, and recognised it as the trademark of the launching of a stinger missile. It was then that he remembered the exposed fuel tanks in the jeep.

"Raiden" VII shouted, temporarily betraying his characteristic stoicism. But Raiden was already moving as fast as hours of military training could take him, away from the jeep.

His heart skipped a beat as the resultant explosion that had seemed to take forever to come about ripped through the jeep behind him, picking him off his feet and throwing him through the night air. Raiden rolled, taking some of the bite out of the landing, and turned just in time to see what had to be Vamp's corpse tumbling like a rag doll through space towards the ground. Raiden could only look on in despair as his chance for revenge was torn away from him.

"Liquid, you bastard" Raiden shouted, vainly attempting to make his voice heard over his enemy's PA-enhanced laughter. He picked his FA-MAS that the explosion had caused him to drop from the floor and fired furiously at RAY's head, his anger increasing with every bullet that ricocheted uselessly off the titanium alloy that encased the bi-pedal tank.

"Raiden" VII repeated, his voice now emitting mere inches from Raiden. He grabbed Raiden's left arm, and wrenched it out of aim. Infuriated, Raiden swung a right fist at VII, who ducked and used his attacker's own momentum to throw him judo-style to the floor and put a knee across his throat.

"Calm down" VII ordered him. "You're no use to me dead."

"Then get the fuck off me" Raiden shouted, as another barrage of missiles flew towards them. VII complied, leaping swiftly out of the missiles' paths. Raiden again unsheathed his HF blade, and twirled away from the incoming missile, before bringing the sword down and slicing through it. Without it's guidance chip, the remanants of the stinger twirled uncontrollably away, before exploding about one-hundred feet safe of Raiden and VII.

"You're being annoyingly alive" Liquid said calmly, his voice slightly skewed by irritation. "Luckily, I have the antidote for..."

The man in the RAY trailed off mid-sentence, stunned at what was occuring before him. A whiff of purple smog, barely visible in the limited light provided by the base's spotlight, had begun to form inches in front of RAY's visor. The semi-solid strands moved simultaneuosly, co-ordinated by some unseen force, until they were brought together into the grinning face of a woman, composed of liliac gas.

"Miasma" VII said quietly beneath his mask, her reputation arousing respect in his voice.

"What..." Liquid was audibly amazed. He armed the laser under the mouth of RAY, and fired it uselessly through the Miasma's gas form. Now it was her turn to laugh.

"What the hell is going on" Raiden shouted at VII, his eyes fixed on the gas that danced unnaturally around RAY's head.

"It's Miasma, a genetically-engineered Patriot soldier" VII answered. "We're in trouble."

"Did you know it'd be here" Raiden demanded, turning towards VII. He took the following silence as a reply in the positive. "Why didn't you tell me about it? We could've prepared..."

"You couldn't have prepared shit" VII interrupted. He knew that Miasma was too good; even before the genetic tampering, VII would've thought twice about crossing her. He had hoped that they could avoid her through careful infiltration. For the first time in a while, VII was filled with a sence of dread.

"She's heading this way."

Miasma, apparently finished with taunting Liquid, was travelling as a dispersing gas swiftly through the cold atmosphere. She reached VII and Raiden within seconds, encircling the pair.

"VII" she stated, her voice a gentle whisper. The cloud that was her pressurised, and in a moment her body was as solid as the men who stood in front of her. Raiden raised his FA-MAS, bringing a smile to her face. "You'll be dead before you can pull the trigger, boy."

"We'll see" the blonde operative answered confidently, firing at the speed of thought. The bullets passed harmlessly through her body, and he was not fast enough to react to the coloumn of gas that moved at an incredible speed towards him, solidifying an inch from his face. The impact kncoked him clean off his feet, and almost out of consciousness.

Liquid, who had been engrossed in watching this development, suddenly regained his composure. He put the RAY into first gear as quickly as he could manage, making the unit charge at Miasma and Raiden. He brought the massive hoof of Metal Gear upwards, hoping to crush his new adversary. The jolt ran through his seat as the unit stomped heavily into the sand, but nothing else. He heard a hiss of fumes entering through the air vent to his head, and almost immedietely smelled the pungent odor of carbon monoxide. Holding his breath, Liquid typed into RAY's control system the "open cockpit" command, followed a second later by its "eject" counterpart. His vision began to blur, but not a moment too soon he was saved by the escape seat that jetisoned out of the Metal Gear. A parachute shot out of the back, slowing Liquid's decent towards the desert earth, but he dropped the best part of the way down on his own, rolling once in the sand to reduce the impact. Coughing, the cloned mercenary pulled an MP5 from his leg holster and shot it upwards towards the cockpit of the now-stationary RAY he had just escaped from, but hit nothing apart from the cockpit itself.

VII watched as more miasmic fog surrounded Liquid, attempting to force him into asphyxiation. Liquid was firing blindly, in all directions. VII saw his movements become less extreme, even sluggish, as the flow of oxygen to his brain was slowed. And with Raiden down, VII knew that he was next.

-

**Author's Note**

I'm sorry for any mistakes made in this chapter. My lack of a spellchecker or word-counter for the forseeable future will probably retard my work on various levels that I'd rather avoid.

Also, I shall now be responding to all reviews on my Xanga, a link to which you can find on my profile.


	18. Chapter V

**Chapter Five**

A cold, grainy texture abraised the left cheek of the felled mercenary as he gradually came to his senses. The aching of his jaw provided a potent distraction from his fruitless attempt at recalling the last time he'd been hit so hard. His vision slowly regained its full power that had been temporarily robbed by the resultant force that had followed the attack by his adversary, the spotlights of the military base that stood no more than one hundred metres away from him moving to highlight circles of sand in the night. He smelled something very much like sulphur and gunpowder, and felt physically sick.

Three words ran through his mind, fighting his desire to stay on the ground: _Get up, Jack. Get up, Jack. _It took too long for his body to follow his brain's instruction, but eventually his nerves got the message through to his muscles and he dragged himself slowly from the ground. On one knee, he instinctively reached for his SOCOM in his thigh holster, but felt only the material of his Skullsuit. He looked frantically left and right for where his weapon had fallen, but to no avail.

"Looking for this?"

The soldier turned around to face his addresser, and the events of the last few minutes came flooding back as he saw her: Miasma. She was holding in her right hand his SOCOM pistol, studying it casually and feeling its weight.

"'Raiden,'" she spoke his name aloud. "Weird codename."

"That, coming from 'Miasma'," Jack replied, trying to sound defiant; but, denied by his grit-laced throat, he just sounded whiny.

Miasma giggled, and watched curiously as the pistol's rubber grip began to steam and bubble. Within a few seconds, the entire grip had melted from the gun, dripping in liquid form to the sand below, where it hissed viciously as it was introduced to cold. Raiden could only observe in silent amazement as the pistol itself lost its shape, combusting into molten steel in a matter of seconds.

"What are you?" he thought, only realising that he'd elecuted the question momentarily afterward.

"I am your superior, Raiden," she answered, a tone of amusement clear in her voice. "Admit it, and I'll let you live."

"You can go to hell," he hoarsed, stifling a cough. He glanced to his left, and saw VII standing still a few metres away from him. Before Raiden could demand help from his comrade, or even pursue the thought, a force equally powerful to that which had almost sparked him out moments before impacted hard in his stomach. The attack made him uncontrollably sink to his knees, and he could immediately feel bile rising up in his body.

Miasma looked on in satisfaction as Raiden vomited mucus on his own hands and the ground beneath him. Victory had never been in doubt for her, but she felt like indulging herself before she finished the fight. She spoke again.

"That's right, Raiden. Show that you're beneath me."

Raiden attempted to forcibly prevent himself from retching, but it was no use. Miasma had emitted horrifically odorous fumes into the air, making him vomit even more violently. Desperately, he tried to hold his breath, but sick spewed from between his lips and he almost choked.

"Say it, and I'll let you live."

The final remains of his last meal left Raiden's stomach, and he purposely spat them into the pool of egestion at his knees. Whatever spit was left in his mouth he hurled in Miasma's direction, and watched as the smile left her face. He cracked an agonising smile at her, realising that his frustration had been passed onto her. The last thing he saw before blacking out was her roundhouse kick, travelling at an almost impossible speed towards his face.

The woman saw him fall face first into his own vomit, and wasted half a second by spitting once onto his motionless body. Then, she turned to the last man who opposed her.

"Hello, Jordan," she greeted tauntingly, staring seductively into VII's featureless black mask.

"Hrrm." He grunted a reply, curious at the use of a name he vaguely knew.

"Same old mask?" she asked, expecting his resulting silence. "If you are going to wear that thing all the time, I could melt it onto your face. Call it a favour from an old friend."

"I don't know you," VII stated truthfully. He couldn't recall ever meeting her in the flesh, though he knew her too well by reputation.

"Oh, that's right," she said with a mock air of remembrance. "You're an amnesiac now, after Ling and his kids fucked with your mind. They can be a little overly optimistic sometimes."

"And you can be an overzealous, overconfident bitch," he dared to say.

She laughed. "I'm certainly confident. But then, I have all the power. What's your excuse? Look at you, swaggering in your own delusions of grandeur. You've always been the same, Jordan. You make the mistake of underestimating more than I do."

Like lighting, something like a lost memory struck VII's ever-calculating brain. He felt the sting of a betrayal of long ago, and linked the woman before him in his mind's eye to a man called Karl.

"I certainly _over_estimated you," he said. "But I hope Shark met your expectations."

Her face hardened as she tried to suppress a sudden swell of rage. Her fists tightened.

"I could kill you where you stand," Miasma said calmly. "But, seeing as we're old friends, I'm giving you the chance to surrender."

VII looked around at the destruction Miasma had wrought: the motionless RAY unit, Liquid unconscious on the ground, Raiden beaten to within an inch of his life. He remembered her liquefying steel by changing her hands to corrosive gas, and was impressed by the memory of her martial arts technique. VII assessed the danger she posed, and weighed his own abilities against it in an open arena where he was vulnerable from sniper fire.

"So?" she asked after a few seconds. "Care to try your luck?"

VII kept his weapons holstered, and raised his hands to shoulder-height.

* * *

Snake had found interrogating Dawson to be an easier venture than he'd expected. Some dark, unreachable… yet familiar part that sat at the back of Snake's mind felt disappointment. He decided not to dwell on this, and asked his next question. 

"So Ling, your boss, is in charge of building a weapon for the Patriots here."

Dawson strained to nod his head. No prizes for guessing what the weapon is, Snake thought.

"Metal Gear," he said to himself, prompting another nod from Dawson.

"Who's the kid?" Snake demanded after a pause. A noise emerged from his prisoner's throat, but no answer was forthcoming. Snake punched the wall behind Dawson hard, and the shelf on which the jar containing the virus stood rattled ominously with the resultant vibrations.

"I don't know!" Dawson croaked, the honest tone of fear prominent in his voice. "I'm just meant to look after her. Her name's Alyssia."

Snake considered, and came to the conclusion that Dawson was holding something back, but whatever he needed to know about the child he could find out later. He was about to end the conversation when something else occurred to him.

"What's with the Snake collection in that containment room?" he questioned, and was met with a look of confusion from the interrogated. "The Item Quarantine. It had all my old stealth suits in. What's going on?"

Dawson looked very confused and very frightened, but he wasn't speaking. He didn't know anything. Snake was just about to use his fist again, this time to knock the Doctor unconscious, but he heard something in the corridor behind him, where he had left Alyssia.

Footsteps.

"Stay right here," Snake whispered to Dawson, drawing his SOCOM and stepping silently towards the doorway of the medical supplies room, putting his back against the wall behind the open door.

The footsteps of the other person were clumsy, almost staggered. Probably a guard, judging by the leathery sound they made on the polished floor, and of average height. Snake was ready for anyone the US Army had trained.

What followed was the rustling sound of the man's uniform as he knelt, no doubt inspecting the unconscious girl in the corridor. It took him eleven seconds to notice and remove the tranquilliser dart in her neck, and a further seven to realise the nearby door was open and to step inside.

Snake guessed the man's height at about six foot one. He was muscular, but nothing Snake couldn't handle, especially since he'd failed to check the room's blind spots before continuing. Kids today, Snake thought. The former Foxhound operative watched the recruit notice Dawson by the chemical rack.

"What did you do to her, you wanker?" the soldier demanded of the statue-still Doctor, receiving no answer. He stepped towards Dawson quickly, but Snake was faster. In no time at all, Snake managed to step up behind the soldier without making a sound, using a technique that involved rolling the ball of the foot steadily in order to walk. Even without the padded stealth suit reducing sound made by the feet, Snake could've been behind him before even the tiniest noise of a step had reached him. With the stealth suit, Snake left the man no chance of hearing.

What gave Snake away were Dawson's eyes. The soldier saw that Dawson was looking past his shoulder, and swung around to confront whatever threat lurked behind him. Snake was unprepared for this, but still managed to kick his opponent's submachine gun into pointing to a safer direction and strike the man in the face, forcing him to stagger backwards. Snake pointed the SOCOM at the man's head before he could raise his M25.

"Freeze," Snake commanded. The soldier did so, but didn't raise his hands. The man was young, no older than mid-twenties, and had a short brown buzz cut and messy stubble. Snake looked to the identification on his dogtag, tilting his head to the right in order to read it. "Brooks, Private N."

"So you're the hostile escapee," Snake was surprised to hear Brooks say.

"Who said you could talk?" Snake replied forcefully. "Put your hands on your head and face him," he ordered, gesturing Brooks to Dawson. He took longer than a usual hostage, but Brooks did as he was told and turned to look Dawson in the face.

"You," Snake addressed Dawson. "Get his M25 and fleece him for any rations." The shell-shocked Doctor quickly obliged. The SMG clattered to the ground.

"You're at least half American," Brooks told Snake. "How come we're holding you here?"

"Shut up!" Snake said angrily. "Talk again and I'll kill you."

"You're a terrorist," Brooks said. Snake didn't reply. This kid knew nothing. "What's your game? Disarming the US? Destroying nuclear weapons? You probably have delusions of helping the next generation. All your doing is stopping us from making peace."

Snake pulled Brooks back to face him and struck him hard in his solar plexus, causing the solider to sink to the floor in pain.

"I warned you," Snake said. He put the SOCOM to Brooks' forehead. "The only reason you're still alive is because I need someone to take me to Ling."

Snake nearly blacked out with the immense pain that struck him without warning in the side of the head. He suddenly found himself travelling headfirst into the wall where he'd held Dawson up minutes ago, and felt the plaster break under his skull's impact. A human hand grabbed him again, lifted him from the floor and slammed him again into the wall, crafting a massive cracked hole beneath the shelf. Snake went limp and slumped uselessly to the floor, seeing his attacker for the first time.

He was huge. He was wearing a brown military coat. He had inhumanely sharp teeth. He'd managed to sneak up on the greatest soldier alive. He was Shark. And he was the only image in Snake's mind as it shut itself down and succumbed to unconsciousness.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Yes, all my characters do talk in macho slogans.


	19. Chapter VI

**Chapter Six**

"What did you say?"

"I said we've lost them," Mei Ling answered Otacon, turning from her computer's screen. "Raiden, VII… even Snake, all unconscious."

"Damn," Otacon replied, more anxious even than his voice revealed. "What the hell do we do now?"

"We've been here before," Mei theorised wearily. "Remember, in Shadow Moses?"

"Yeah, but Snake doesn't have me and a bottle of ketchup now…"

Something jumped in Otacon's stomach as he remembered how Snake had been tortured at the hands of Revolver Ocelot, how he must have been tortured in the past week. He had cracked once… how much had he told the Patriots about Philanthropy?

It didn't really matter, Otacon reminded himself. Philanthropy were no longer a secret NGO: The Patriots had long known of their existence and even played them like chess pieces. It had seemed for a time that Snake and Otacon were the only ones not under the Patriots' influence, a belief that was harshly shattered towards the conclusion of the Big Shell mission. It was amazing that Snake and himself were still alive… unless The Wiseman's Committee saw them as no threat at all.

But what about the sniper who had tried to kill him in his apartment?

If he was indeed working for the Patriots, why had he been sent to kill Otacon while Snake had been kept alive? And how did VII fit into all this?

It didn't add up. Otacon's first reaction was to contact Snake, but that was no longer an option. If Otacon's instincts were correct, Snake would be kept alive, so he would contact his friend as soon as he regained consciousness. Until then, he needed time to think.

"Sunrise," Rosemary spoke for the first time since finishing her Codec conversation with Jack. Otacon had thought her asleep.

Otacon swiftly realised she was correct: light was again visible outside. In one night, VII and Raiden had infiltrated Groom Lake under cover of darkness, only to get themselves captured. Joy awash with sorrow.

"I know about Jack and the others," Rose revealed. "But I'm not going to panic. We need to come up with a plan."

"I agree," Mei Ling replied. "But there's nothing we can do until they're awake. We're all the way out here. They're the ones on the battlefield."

"What about an escape plan?" Rose suggested. "We can't just drive up to Area 51 once they're finished destroying Metal Gear and pick them up. It'd be suicide."

"Commandeering a helicopter in the middle of the desert is next to impossible," Mei commented. "Anyone got any other ideas?"

There was a pause while all three considered their limited options.

"I have one," Rose said finally. "They can't get out on the ground and they can't fly out. But, a base that big in the middle of the desert must have a water pipeline."

"So they'd be escaping underground," Otacon realised Rose's scheme. "If we could find out where that is, we could drive to the end of the pipeline and meet them when they come out."

"Right," Mei Ling said. "We need to find out where the nearest water drill is. I'm guessing there'll be one nearby that feeds the base."

Otacon almost leaped into the now-vacant seat that stood in front of Mei Ling's computer. In an instant, he mentally prepared himself for hours of gruelling work and psychological torment, taking full advantage of the hope-filled moment that had been set before him by the teamwork of his comrades.

It was time to go to work.

* * *

The room in which Doctor Nicholas Ling now stood was a reminiscent of The Cell, the place where he had utilised techniques perfected by him long ago in the field of interrogation. In truth, he had never hoped to break Snake with electroshock torture as Shalashaska had in Shadow Moses: he knew the memory of failing a loved one was enough for Snake to resist anything anyone could throw at him nowadays. It had been more of an experiment: a test of Snake's worth, and a test of his own brainwashing abilities. After all, Doctor Ling could not rely merely on the psychic talents of The Janus Collective for this purpose: there would be too many in his army for them to handle alone.

The doors to the room began to open. Through one to his left, the barely visible figure of Miasma walked. Behind her, ensnared in an aerogel substance she had created, floated the knocked-out bodies of VII and Liquid. Two soldiers followed close behind, dragging the unconscious forms of Raiden and Vamp. In a door to Ling's right, the muscular physique of Shark appeared, carrying over his shoulder a bald man wearing the distinctive uniform of Solid Snake.

Anyone who knew Snake would've been hard pushed to recognise him with his hair short, but it was indeed him who Shark carried into the room.

All five unconscious men were dropped before Ling. He smiled a peculiar smile, and looked to the two soldiers. They stood quickly to attention, saluting him with the respect usually reserved for a colonel or a decorated war hero. He saluted them back. And then, like lighting, he pulled a revolver from his white coat and fired two shots, each one finding its mark in the head of its target. The two soldiers dropped dead.

"Secure the room, Charity," Ling said to half of the Janus Collective, who had remained unseen by everyone but him. With the speed of thought, Charity proofed the room of all electronic or psychic interference, allowing her master to speak freely.

"We stand on the cliff face of history, my friends," he began. "A couple more steps will take us to the edge, steps these five men will take for us…." Ling gestured to the unmoving figures of Liquid, VII, Vamp, Raiden and Snake.

"It is they who will fall, allowing us to rise, rise to the level of our masters," he continued. His voice reverberated around the room eerily, like a slow drumbeat on a foggy battlefield. "We will approach the Patriots with stealth, an offering to them heralding us. They will see this offering as a gift, while we will see it for what it truly is: a knife sharp enough to cut through their lies and purge this world of their influence.

"Solidus Snake and President Johnson thought Arsenal Gear a sharp enough blade. But the Patriots saw all, while the Presidents remained blind.

"We are not so blind. I have been trusted with many of the Patriots' secrets. I was alive to see The Philosophers come together and watched as they fell apart. I know of the sacrifices made by The Boss in the Cold War. I stood by The Twelve's side as they rigged election after election: Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon… all puppets of unseen puppeteers.

"Solidus was justified in his goals, but flawed in his actions. You do not pit yourself against the might of the Patriots: you sneak up on them and smother them in their sleep. You cut their throats while you stand beside them. Stealth is the key. The Janus Collective has been our shield. And Metal Gear will be the knife."

The tall doctor stepped back from his four comrades, revealing that he'd been standing on a steel trapdoor. He leant down and pulled at the door, moving it gracefully open to reveal a long, cylindrical shaft that led beyond what the eye could make visible. Four more identical shafts opened to his right and left, making five in all. He nodded to Charity and Faith, who used their invisible power of telekinesis to lift the bodies of the fallen and hold them above the shaft, so that each had one to himself.

Doctor Ling raised his hand to The Collective to halt them, the expression of someone who has just remembered a chore he had meant to carry out prominent on his face. He reached into his white coat with his left hand, and within seconds produced a hypodermic syringe. _Not an ideal tool_, he thought to himself, but the best available to hand.

He walked towards Liquid Snake, who was suspended in mid air. He took hold of the right arm of the blonde-haired commander, but remembered something else and let it go in favour of Liquid's left. It took him less than a half-second to find the necessary artery in the underside of Liquid's elbow and, once he had, Ling plunged the syringe into it, slowly using it to withdraw crimson lifeblood.

"What're you doing?" Shark broke the silence to inquire. Ling wrinkled his nose at his henchman's impertinence, but kept on at his task of filling the syringe with Liquid's body fluid. Shark never did have a sense of occasion.

"Taking the remains of Big Boss' Legacy," Ling explained. "From the inheritor of the Legacy of Blood."

"Why?"

"If you must know, think of it as the result of a promise I made to an old friend," Ling said.

When the extraction was completed, Ling nodded again to Charity and Faith, speaking as he did so. The five men fell into their respective openings in the floor and out of sight.

"Let the best weapon win."


	20. Chapter VII

**Chapter Seven**

VII awoke with a start, instinctively reaching for his holstered SOCOM pistol and, surprisingly, finding it on his person. This registered with him after a few seconds as strange: why had they left him armed and fully dressed?

Curiouser and curiouser, VII thought as he scanned his immediate area. Surrounding him were four other bodies, all male and apparently unconscious. One of them, nearest to him, he recognised immediately as Raiden. A little further away was the unmistakable blonde hair of Liquid Snake and the brown trenchcoat-and-goatee combination Vamp had sported earlier. The fourth figure, recently shaven bald but possessing an uncanny facial likeness to Liquid could only have been Solid Snake.

VII loosened the straps at the back of his head and the mask that covered his face relinquished its grip on his face, allowing him to reach up underneath it and wipe his eyes of sleep. For the first time in a long while, VII felt the rough and messy stubble that had accumulated on his face brush against his fingers. After he could see clearly, he got up from his kneeling position and walked over to Raiden.

"What…" Jack questioned his surroundings once VII had shaken him out of his dream. They were in an elongated, rectangular room with only one visible exit: a door perfectly centred in the furthest wall. The room itself was of a dark metal, illuminated only by a thin row of long bulbs that ran lengthways along the ceiling, emitting a weak, purple-tinted light.

The other three warriors began to stir almost simultaneously with a harmony of grunts and groans. Vamp arose the fastest, quickly assuming a standing position that looked as though it'd been comfortably occupied for hours. Liquid pulled himself up, shaking off tiredness as he did so. Snake was the last to stand, and looked visibly in pain, though he did his best to hide it.

"Liquid!" Snake shouted in fury once he'd got his bearings. He rose his Beretta to Liquid's head height.

"Brother," Liquid voiced his greeting with mock pleasance wrapped in a slimy, upper-crust English accent. He had no time to reach for his own weapon, and instead raised his hands in defeat.

"No!" VII said, moving towards Snake, who returned his glance with a bewildered stare.

"Who are you?" Snake asked VII. "What's this got to do with you?"

"My name is VII," came the reply. "I'm an ally of Otacon."

"So you tell him," Snake spat. He pushed the cold steel of his handgun against Liquid's temple. "That doesn't explain why you want this scum to live."

Raiden watched the scene in amazement. Liquid and Solid were the spitting image of each other, like separated Siamese twins. Their hair and their clothing set them apart, but otherwise they were identical. It was weird watching one holding the other at gunpoint. What could Liquid have done to make Snake so furious?

"If you kill him," VII growled. "Then we all could die."

Listening to those words, Raiden finally understood why VII had stopped him from killing Vamp before. In the Big Shell, the Patriots had created conflict between himself and Solidus in order to divert attacks from their selves, when Solidus and he should have put their past behind them and stood united. At last, Raiden could see a way of beating the La-Li-Lu-Le-Lo.

"He's right, Snake," Raiden spoke up, his voice still creaking. "We have to work together to get out of this."

Snake's face looked as weighted with emotion as Raiden had ever seen. Raging anger, agonising pain and hollow sadness were worn clearly on his usually confident and composed complexion. Something was conflicting inside of him… a memory, perhaps, leading the fight.

Suddenly, a thought flashed through Raiden's mind as he realised that Vamp had escaped his view. Too late he scanned the area for his nemesis, only for the vampire to appear at Snake's side like a flash.

A sharp machete blade touched Snake's covered throat, pushing dangerously against the rubber sneaking suit that would protect him only so much.

"Kill him," Vamp spoke to Snake in his smooth, Middle-Eastern accent. "I haven't drank in hours." He felt almost aroused as Snake's arteries pulsated against the tip of his knife.

Raiden unleashed his SOCOM and aimed it at Vamp's head. "You knife him, and I'll drop you."

An echoing silence followed as the Mexican stand-off continued. VII stood quiet between Raiden and the others, his mind racing to come up with a plan that would not end in one of them dying. He looked to Raiden, and then back at Snake and the others, trying desperately to think of something.

"Stalemate," Liquid mused. "Perhaps this isn't the best time to settle old scores, though. There are more… pressing matters at hand."

"I agree," Raiden said. "We need to find a way out of here before the Patriots sic Miasma on us again."

"I propose we all drop our weapons at the same time," Liquid suggested, prompting a moment of thought from all parties.

"How about it, Snake? On three?" Raiden asked.

Snake tried to push his inner turmoil down in order to achieve rational thought. He could kill Liquid now, but he was too weak to block any subsequent attack from Vamp. Besides, they might need each other. A female scream, sounding akin to breaking glass, echoed familiarly through Snake's mind as he made his decision.

The legendary soldier lowered his Beretta, feeling Vamp's blade leave the vicinity of his throat in turn. Out the corner of his eye, Snake saw Raiden drop his pistol to waist-height.

In an instant, Snake dropped his Beretta and spun around, taking the machete from Vamp's still-outstretched arm and sinking an elbow into Liquid's side as he swung back round. He took Liquid down to his knees with a kick to the leg and placed Vamp's knife against his own twin's unprotected neck.

"But if you cross us…" Snake warned, pressing the blade against Liquid as Vamp had done to Snake moments ago.

"I understand, Brother," Liquid winced. "If you remember, I hate you as much as you hate me, but I'm willing to put the past behind us… at least momentarily."

Snake looked up. For once, Vamp looked completely helpless. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to rid the world of them both. One last time, Snake contemplated murder.

"Fine by me," Snake growled, pushing Liquid to the floor and standing straight. Raiden breathed out audibly, while VII stood in silent relief. Vamp looked on in a quiet, icy rage.

"Now, if we've all finished throwing testosterone at each other, maybe we could assess what sort of traps are likely to spring out at us between here and the door," said Raiden, turning everyone's attention to the only visible exit in the room. The space between them and the door looked empty, but their instincts told them there was no telling what sort of hidden defences lay out of sight.

"Wait…" Snake said. "Why have they left us all together in the first place? For that matter, why are we still alive?"

"I don't know," VII lied convincingly. "But what I do know is this: I've been unconscious for about three hours judging by the small amount of accumulated mucus around my eyes. In that time, I've been completely stripped and redressed in the same clothes; they did a good job making sure everything was in the right place, but I can still feel the difference. I feel physically fine, but there's a faint aftertaste of anaesthetic in my mouth. The floor is firm but soft and impact-allowing, so they probably dropped us in here."

"Then they've made sure we're fighting fit," Liquid concluded, and looked at Snake.

"So to speak."

"But why?" Raiden inquired, more of himself than anyone. "Could this be preparation for some sort of test?"

Liquid laughed. "Why test us? We've already failed. They should've just killed us while we were at their mercy. It's what I would have done."

"This is a test," VII said. "But there's no way of knowing why until we get to the end of it."

"_If _we work together, then there's nothing they can throw at us that'll stop us," Raiden said. "They must have known that."

"Let's just see how this plays out," Snake said assertively. "We don't really have any other choice."

"You sound like you have a plan," VII said.

"Not really," Snake replied. "But I've been in situations like this before. I say we use a defensive scoping pattern to reach the door: one of us takes the point, and the rest stand back to back, so nothing can attack us from behind. Check all corners and ridges of the room as we move: anything could spring out. Look for laser trip wires and hidden cameras, anything that could pose a threat."

"What about when we reach the door?" Raiden asked.

"Two of us stand against the wall and one in front of the door when the point man opens it – does anyone have fibre optics?"

"Yes," VII replied, pulling an optic cable he'd taken from the assassins at the train station from the inside of his suit's pouches and handing it to Snake.

"Great," Snake said, taking the cable. "The pointer will check if the other side of the door is clear with this, but we'll keep the defence pattern just in case. When we're on the other side, everyone needs to look for some cover. No sharing hiding places unless totally necessary: I don't want to put all my eggs in one basket.

"Okay. Has anyone tried their codecs?"

Raiden put his index and middle fingers respectively to his neck. A second or two later, he spoke: "I can reach you and VII, but there's no response from Otacon."

"We'll have to assume the line's been broken," VII said. "We can't rely on him getting through to us."

"Exactly," Snake concurred. "But we might need to contact each other should we have to split up."

"I assume you have a communication system for this mission, Liquid?" VII asked.

"Of course," Liquid said. "Vamp and I are on compatible wavelengths, but we can link ours to your codec easily."

"Good," Snake said. "I don't want you two wandering off."

Liquid grinned.

"Who's going to take point?" Raiden asked.

Snake thought for a second. "Normally, I'd volunteer, but we have someone who's meant to be invincible on our team," he said, looking at Vamp. He walked over to the vampire and handed him the optic cable.

"Do you know how to use this?" Snake questioned.

"I was in Dead Cell," Vamp replied coldly, taking the cable and putting it in the pocket of his combat belt.

"Oh," Snake addressed Vamp again, turning back to him. "I think this is yours." He threw the knife he'd taken before towards his reluctant ally, fast enough to make Raiden think it was an attack. Just before it reached the vampire's face, though, Vamp's hand moved at an inhuman speed through the air and snatched the machete from its trajectory by the handle.

The five men stopped for mere moments and contemplated what they were about to attempt. None of them had any doubts that this could be their last assignment, and there was not one of them under the illusion that they were anything but rats in a maze. It was a feeling they were getting used to.

Vamp began to move towards the door, which stood around 50 feet away. Snake walked around three paces behind him to his right, and VII immediately moved into position and faced away from Snake, keeping within two steps of him. Raiden nervously nodded to Liquid, who grinned sardonically before turning his back on the young agent to face the door. Raiden too turned around to face the way they'd come from, his back to Liquid, and began to step cautiously backwards, trying to keep in step with VII. They all walked in stealth positions, almost crouched (with the exception of Vamp, who strolled confidently but gradually).

Raiden recognised the defensive pattern from VR Training. It was part of one of the few team-based missions he'd embarked on, required in order to obtain the "Snake" codename. Of course, Raiden had passed with flying colours, and he took a second to ponder how well Snake had done on the mission. The difference was, Snake had probably performed the move in an actual combat situation rather than in a virtual reality computer simulation.

Suddenly, something caught Raiden's eye. To his right, a small section of the wall flicked open and revealed a gun mounted on a camera. Before a shot could ring out, Raiden fired with his own SOCOM pistol. His aim was sure despite the lack of time allowed to line up the target, and the camera was destructed with a single bullet. Almost immediately, he heard another shot ring out to his left from VII's gun.

"They're in the walls," Raiden told the others without turning to face them. "Mounted security cameras."

More shots were fired from Snake's gun, and one from Liquid's. The unmistakable sound of the cameras exploding followed. Raiden noted that Snake was firing repeatedly, while the rest of them were clinically picking off their targets. He'd have to talk to him about it later.

Vamp was not firing; in fact, he didn't even have a gun. Instead, he had begun to spin in his trademark bullet-avoiding dance; gracefully dodging anything that flew towards him. He even did it more slowly than usual, to allow the others to keep pace with him, but it did not do the cameras any good. They could no more hit him than they could the Sun.

Something sprayed across the back of Raiden's head. He instinctively felt to see what it was, keeping his gun in front of him with his right hand. When he brought his left hand forward again, he saw that his gloved fingertips were smeared with blood. He shot another camera before it had even fully opened, and called to Snake.

"Snake, are you okay?" he shouted, knowing the blood had sprayed from his direction.

"Just keep shooting," the defiant reply from the former FoxHound operative resonated through the whipping sound of silenced gunshots.

And so they slowly advanced in their formulated positions, moving almost as one toward the door in the synchronised formation while picking off any cameras that would fire. Vamp still led, swiftly spinning and side-stepping away from any bullets. In a time that seemed to take forever, he finally reached the door and knelt in front of it, readying the cable.

Almost as soon as he did so, the cameras stopped firing. The ones that had not been destroyed retreated into their openings in the walls, which sealed as tight shut as though they had never opened, now indistinguishable from the rest of the concrete that encased them.

Vamp slid one end of the optic cable under the door, using the goggles at his end to view what was on the other side. Snake backed up against the wall to his right, and Liquid on his other side. VII stood behind Vamp, gun raised in case anything should attack when the door was opened. Raiden kept watch for more cameras.

After a tense period of no movement, Vamp spoke.

"There is nothing on the other side," he told them. "I can neither see nor smell anything human."

"What about cover?" Snake asked through gritted teeth. "Is there anywhere to hide?"

"No," Vamp answered. "There is nothing. Only a long corridor. I can not see where it leads."

"Okay," Snake said, his hand on the door release button. "On three, we enter. Vamp leads; the rest of us stay in the same formation as well as possible. Ready?"

He took the lack of an answer as a positive one, and began the count.

"One.

"Two.

"Three, MOVE!" He pressed the button, and the door slid upwards with a swish of metal-on-metal. Vamp practically leapt into the room, knife at the ready. Snake and Liquid entered, guns strafing from left to right, looking for danger of any kind. Raiden and VII, side by side, backed into the corridor and kept their eyes on the previous room, should there have been any remaining cameras, until the door slid closed with a metallic grating.

The corridor itself was made of the same steel that had composed the door, and lit only by a single white light above their heads. As such, Snake and Liquid were unable to see more than three feet in front of themselves, and already Vamp was close to disappearing from their sight.

"Wait," Snake said for Vamp's benefit, raising his hand as he did so. "But stay in formation."

"What's happening?" Raiden asked.

"We can't see shit," Snake said. "Night-vision goggles on for those who have them."

Raiden pulled on the goggles they'd taken from Mei Ling's would-be assassins, while VII tapped the side of his mask, making the NV slide he'd installed into it slip over his eyes. Liquid pulled a pair similar to Raiden's out of his coat, and Snake put on the ones he'd found with the Philanthropy sneaking suit.

"Guns ready," Snake said. "We don't want to be caught with our dicks in our hands. Vamp, can you see?"

"If anything attacks, I will smell it first."

Raiden grimaced at the realisation that Vamp, a man he absolutely detested, could probably smell his sweat right now. It dripped off his blonde hairline despite the cold chill that came with the corridor's steel walls, making him feel slightly sick again. He remembered how Miasma had humbled him in their previous battle, but for once he wasn't looking for revenge. He thought of Rose, before returning his mind definitively to the mission.

As they progressed, it was soon became clear that the corridor was becoming more and more enclosed. Whereas when they first entered three people could have easily walked abreast, Raiden's shoulder was almost brushing against VII's. He imagined Snake and Liquid were doing their best not to come into contact with each other.

SHH-uuulp 

Without warning, the same metal on metal sound that had heralded the door's opening now reverberated around them again, and before Snake could move a sheet of steel dropped down in front of him, cutting the four of them off from Vamp.

SHH-uuulp 

Another one fell from the ceiling behind them, wide enough to completely prevent the group from returning to where they had come from. All four of them looked up as the sound began again.

"Look out!" Snake shouted, backing up against the wall to his right. Raiden did the same on the opposite wall in the nick of time, a heartbeat before a third metal sheet dropped down between him and Snake, vertical to the one that had separated them from Vamp.

"Shit!" Raiden mouthed viciously and punched the steel that kept him from Snake and VII. "Snake! VII! Can you hear me?"

"It's no good," said a voice next to him. "They'll have sound-proofed these walls."

_Oh great_, Raiden thought. _I'm cut off from everyone except Liquid._

The two of them were now encased in a room five feet in length, between one and one and a half feet in width and about eight feet high. They barely had enough space to move, and Raiden immediately began to wonder about the amount of air left to them.

"What next, a pit of cobras?" he asked sarcastically.

"Cobras?" Liquid asked. It was the first time Raiden had seen him look confused.

"Indiana Jones," Raiden answered.

"Hmm," Liquid mused. He slumped against the wall and slid down it into a sitting position. "I was always more of a James Bond man."

"Figures," Raiden said. "Look, I'm going to try to contact Snake over codec. Don't go anywhere."

"The kid's wired with nanomachines," Liquid said to himself as Raiden touched the neck region of his skull suit.

"Raiden?" Snake answered the codec call almost instantaneously. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," Raiden answered. "I'm with Liquid."

There was a beat while Snake cursed under his breath.

"Look, be careful," the legendary mercenary told him. "Don't let him out of your sight for an instant. If you think for one second that he's gonna turn on you, do not hesitate to kill him."

"Why?" Raiden asked. "Why do you hate him so much? You two are identical, for God's sake."

"We're nothing alike," Snake hissed like his namesake. "And God had nothing to do with him."

"Look, don't worry about me," Raiden answered after a pause. "I'm more concerned about you."

"Me? I'm fine."

"No, you're not," Raiden spoke frankly. "You've been shot."

"Flesh wound."

"And your aiming was all off before. I heard you wasting shots in there… panicking."

"I'm trying to keep you alive, kid," Snake retorted angrily. "If you don't trust me, then you're on your own."

Snake signed off, ending the codec transmission abruptly. Raiden stood, stewing in his anger. _That's what I get for showing concern, _he thought. Liquid grinned up at him from the floor.

"What did you do?" Raiden demanded.

Liquid feigned a look of curiosity. "What do you mean?"

"To Snake," he affirmed. "He despises you."

Liquid ran his gloved hand through his own golden locks and looked casually up at the ceiling. He sighed, as if he was recalling some repressed memory. He'd dropped all airs of mock now.

"This may be… difficult for you to understand, boy," Liquid began. "I have no illusions that Snake and I are among the most revered warriors in the world…"

"At least, Snake is."

"…Indeed. Snake is what most soldiers aspire to be. I'm sure you feel the same about him."

Raiden thought for a moment. Liquid was right: Snake was almost a hero to him, and he'd admitted as much during the Big Shell mission.

"Well," Liquid continued. "It may surprise you that our dispute is over something very unprofessional indeed."

"Go on," said Raiden, now intrigued.

"I won't go into details," Liquid shook his head at the ground. "I don't want your estimation of such a legend like Snake to be diminished because of my bickering with him. But our squabble is actually over a woman."

"A woman?" Raiden asked.

"Yes. Her name was Meryl."

"Meryl," Raiden searched his mind to see if he knew the name. "Snake never mentioned her."

"He wouldn't," Liquid said, looking up again at Raiden. "She came between us. I don't blame her for a second, though: she was beautiful. It's no wonder Snake couldn't resist her."

"What happened?"

"He… Snake…" Liquid began. His voice never wavered, but he put his hand over his eyes as though to hide any potential tears.

"It's alright," Raiden said, kneeling down beside Liquid. "You don't have to tell me."

"No. It's okay," Liquid said, removing his hand from his eyes. "He killed her."

Raiden stood, shocked by this revelation. Never had he thought Snake capable of something like this. "You're lying."

"You don't have to believe me, boy," Liquid said. "It's between me and Snake, not you."

"Why should I believe you?" Raiden emphasised. "You're a terrorist."

"So is Snake," Liquid said, and Raiden knew he spoke the truth. They were all terrorists now. "And that bespectacled fool he calls his 'partner'. Really, do you think cold-blooded murder is beyond men like Snake and I? We're soldiers. There are casualties in every war, and our war was no different."

The more Raiden considered it, the more it made sense. It explained why Snake never wanted to meet Rosemary: the pain of relationships was too much for him. He had killed his own lover.

Snake looked over at VII, who was busy checking the walls for any weaknesses.

"So what's your story?" Snake inquired.

"Me?" VII replied in his gravely voice, not turning away from his work. "All you need to know is that I'm a friend."

"The enemy of my enemy, huh?" Snake asked rhetorically. "What's with the mask?"

VII paused what he was doing, unmoving. When he finally spoke, it was not in his usual tone. "It's a toxin inhibitor that allows me to remain anonymous. Night-vision and infra-red as standard, as well as a removable programme for a SOLITON radar."

"All that and you'd fit right in at Mardi-Gras," Snake retorted.

"Hrrm."

The ex-FoxHound operative visually scanned their enclosed area. It didn't look hopeful that they were going to get out of there on their own merits.

"I have a laser," VII began. "But we can't use it on that wall in case it injures Raiden or Liquid. The other walls are likely to be reinforced with titanium."

"This is insane," Snake said. "This base is meant to be used for alien research. Why was I brought here? And what's with this place… it's like some demented funhouse."

"I assume you met the Chinaman during your stay?"

Snake paused. "The man who tortured me had a faint Mandarin accent. Are the Communists mixed up in this?"

"No… Probably. I don't know," the masked man said. "How far the Patriots' influence extends is unknown to me."

"Goddamn," Snake uttered with a heavy sigh.

"What's important is they know were we are," VII concluded. "They'll have wasted a lot of time if their plan was to just suffocate us. Though we can't assume they won't let us die in these chambers, it's a comforting thought that there is probably a way out."

"Yeah," Snake said. "Real comforting.

All we need to do now is find it."


End file.
